


Grand Slam Thank You, Ma'am

by faithtastic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Bellamy is a floofy bad tempered cat, Clexa Week 2018, Day 4, F/F, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Smut, Physical Therapy, an elaborate excuse to objectify Lexa in sporting apparel, excessive coquettish eye rolling, oops some angst, overly Aussie Anya, so much thirst, thirst, tropes galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-03-25 03:11:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 99,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13825248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: No one took much notice of Lexa Woods as a scrawny little upstart, but flash forward a few years and she’s got a real shot at a Wimbledon Title. But when a recurring injury flares up before the Championships begin, she’s forced to seek treatment. What she wasn’t counting on when she walked into the clinic that day was for a sassy blonde physio to turn her carefully ordered world upside down…AKA Tennis!AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my beta kru: Orange (fic godmother and Enabler-in-Chief™), Clonie, Syn, Weasal, and Gramjams.

“The Women’s Singles is tipped to be a fierce competition this year. Reigning champion Ontari North is riding high off the back of her stunning victory at Eastbourne and the French Open last month.”

Leaning over the suitcase, Lexa makes a disgruntled noise but she doesn’t pause in the methodical unpacking of its contents. She sets aside neatly-folded piles of leggings, running shorts, sports bras and underwear. Checks an inside pocket for the soft pouch she keeps her lucky pendant necklace in and transfers it to her gear bag. She tunes out the television while she goes about putting her things away, carries her toiletries into the large ensuite bathroom and arranges the various items to her liking on the ledge above the sink, ensuring that the labels all face outwards.

When she returns to the bedroom ten minutes later, they’re _still_ talking about Ontari.

“With number two seed Harper McIntyre out of action from injury and world number three Luna Waters beset by a string of personal crises off the court, Martina, who do you think might pose a threat to North’s dominance?”

Scowling, Lexa reaches for the remote on the nightstand, about to switch the damn thing off because hearing them drone on and on about Ontari fucking North isn’t helping her stress levels, but the mention of her own name gives her pause.

“—Woods could be one to watch,” Martina Navratilova says, to the non-committal humming of two of the other studio pundits and a quiet scoff from Nia Winterbottom. “She clinched the Australian Open title earlier this year, beating North in the final.”

Interest piqued, Lexa sits on the edge of the bed, eyes glued to the wall-mounted flatscreen.

The host lets out a rueful chuckle. “That was a brutal match. Lasted over three and a half hours, if I remember correctly. But North knocked Woods out early on in the French Open, and rather decisively too.”

“Hardly,” Lexa spits. They’d been one set apiece before she tweaked her hamstring. She’s certain she would have annihilated Ontari in the third if the injury hadn’t flared up again.

“I don’t rate Woods’ chances,” Nia says, and it puts Lexa’s hackles up. That woman’s never had a positive thing to say about her. “In their last five matches, North has won four. Three of those in straight sets. Woods lacks the mettle to win another grand slam. Australia was a fluke.”

“Well,” the host scratches the side of his nose. “I think it’s safe to say you’re probably not the most objective authority on North. Wasn’t it that upset in Melbourne that prompted Ontari to shake up her coaching staff?”

Nia offers a bland smile but her eyes glitter with malice at the host’s pointed question. Lexa wants to high five him. Because it’s true, the old harpy is notorious for letting her personal bias towards her former protégée show in the commentary box.

“I disagree. I don’t believe it was a fluke,” Martina says, guiding the discussion back to Lexa. “It was the result of tenacity and tremendous hard work from Woods and her support team. She’s shown much greater focus and discipline over the past couple of years and it’s paying off. She’s steadily climbed the rankings. Her performances have been fairly consistent, recent injury aside. Remember, she made it to the final of the US Open last time and she was showing good form at Roland Garros until—”

It’s Anya barging into the room that diverts Lexa’s attention away from the television. She huffs at the intrusion, thinking maybe it was a mistake to rent a house instead of staying at a hotel since apparently closed doors mean nothing to Anya.

“Do you mind? I could’ve been getting undressed.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen you in the nuddy.”

Anya sniffs and sends a look of disgust towards the diffuser pumping wisps of aromatherapy oil into the air—lavender: to promote relaxation, calm nerves, and aid sleep quality.  

“Christ, it smells like a fucking Febreeze factory in here.” Then she notices the TV, tuned to Eurosport. Tuts loudly. “Put that bloody garbage off, it’ll only mess with your head.”

With a sigh Lexa turns the television off while Nia’s face happens to be in the frame, frozen in a sneering rictus for a second before the screen goes black.

“Was there something you actually wanted? Or did you just come by to bug me?”

“That _is_ my favourite pastime but, yeah.” Anya holds up the three garment bags hooked over her fingers. “Your new gear arrived. Courier just dropped it off.”

“Oh, great. Could you…?” Lexa nods towards the fitted wardrobes, already stocked with hoodies and sweats, several shelves occupied by an assortment of Lexa’s favourite sneakers.

Anya hangs the garment bags inside and turns to face Lexa, casting a critical eye over her left leg.

“Why aren’t you wearing the compression bandage? And you’re meant to be keeping that thigh elevated.”

An eye roll. “I’m _fine_.” Lexa tosses the remote onto the bed. “I told you, it was just a tiny twinge. Almost non-existent. It’s the travelling; the cramped seating on the plane. I mean, fuck, you’d think Indra could spring for Business Class every once in awhile without bankrupting me.”

Anya doesn’t seem entirely convinced by the excuse but she doesn’t argue the point.

“Hm. Well, make sure you get your beauty sleep,” she says over her shoulder as she turns to leave. “She wants some glamour shots in the new kit for Insta. Hashtag Nike Dykey.”

Lexa throws her a falsely saccharine smile and flips the double bird. Anya only smirks.

It isn’t until Anya reaches the doorway that Lexa pipes up again.

“Hey, um, I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention,” she makes a roundabout gesture towards her thigh, “to Titus when he arrives.”

Now the other woman looks displeased. “Lexa…”

“He always overreacts.”

“It’s part of his job to look out for your physical well-being,” Anya says in a flat tone. “Mine too.”

“I know that. And I appreciate it, I do. If I’m sore in the morning, I’ll speak to him. But let’s not worry him unnecessarily, okay? He’s already going to be cranky about missing his flight.”

Folding her arms, Anya sighs in exasperation.

Lexa gives her a pleading look. Adds a little pout to the mix. Watches as Anya’s opposition gradually dissolves to nothing. It’s a tactic Lexa’s honed to perfection over the years and Anya’s no less immune to it now than she was when they were teenagers at the academy.

Brown eyes flick towards the ceiling. She heaves another sigh and throws her hands up in defeat. “Alright. But when you hobble off court at training tomorrow and Cue Ball spits the dummy, I’m denying all knowledge.”

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Over breakfast—scrambled egg whites, toast, a kale, banana, and almond milk smoothie—Lexa is conscious of Anya’s stare, watching her like a hawk when she gets up to put her dishes in the sink, looking for any telltale sign that Lexa’s leg is troubling her. Titus sits at the table too, oblivious to the tension while he scrolls through emails on the iPad, a steaming mug of coffee beside him.

“No 5k this morning?” he asks, not looking up from the screen.

“Too tired. Jet lag caught up with me. Plus, the unfamiliar bed. Figured I’d sleep in just this once,” Lexa says with a small shrug, ignoring the narrowing of Anya’s eyes, the thinning of her lips into a hard line.

Anya, who’s instantly suspicious because Lexa almost _never_ misses her 6am run. Not unless she’s travelling or struck down by severe illness. As a stickler for routine, the phrase ‘lazy day’ simply isn’t part of Lexa’s vocabulary and Anya knows it better than anyone.

But she’d woken up stiff and a little achy and didn’t want to run the risk of making it worse. So she carefully worked through a sequence of static standing and sitting stretches. Took a quick, cold shower. Wrapped her thigh as a precaution before slipping into sweats and a tank and throwing on a hoodie.

Titus doesn’t pry further, just grumbles something under his breath about Indra that Lexa doesn’t quite catch because his diction is fucking terrible.

“What time will the car be here?” Lexa asks, keen to distance the conversation from the unusual break in her daily regimen.

“Twenty minutes.”

Lexa nods and avoids Anya’s eyes. “I’ll go get my stuff ready.”

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


They’re doing hand-fed drills, Titus mixing up the direction of his throws to get her moving around the box, when she feels that slight pinch again. That tightness when she bends her knee and the muscles contract. Her footwork only falters for a second but it’s enough for eagle-eyed Anya to spot it.

“Oi! Okay, stop, stop,” Anya shouts from her position beside the net at the doubles sideline. “Right, you need to tell him or I will.”

Titus glances between the two of them. “Tell me what?”

“It’s nothing,” Lexa says, shooting Anya a look. Irritated, she swipes at the bead of sweat dripping down her cheekbone with the back of her hand. Twirls her racket and readies her stance. “Keep going, coach.”

They’ve only got this practice court for another ten minutes and she wants to complete her drills. The thought of leaving early, training incomplete, makes her antsier than she cares to admit. Besides, once she does some cool down stretches and gets back to the locker room to apply some ice, she’ll be fine. She just needs to power through.

Anya marches over. “It’s her fucking hammy.”

“Anya!”

“What?” Titus demands through gritted teeth, a heavy glower on his face. “When?”

Pursing her lips, Lexa’s eyes slide away. She fixes her downcast gaze on the fading white paint of the service line, the latticework of the net; anywhere but his darkening expression.

“ _Lexa_.”

She picks at the grip tape on the handle of her racket. Sighs, “Monday. After we did the match simulation.”

He makes a noise of incoherent anger.

She locks eyes with him again, lifts her chin. Defiant. “I did everything I was supposed to do. I followed the same advice as last time and it’s honestly not bad. I barely feel it.”

“The tournament begins in _four days_ ,” he says, all loud bark. Some spittle flies out his mouth and Lexa tries not to flinch. There’s a vein throbbing in his temple that looks dangerously close to popping. “And you didn’t think it would be pertinent to inform me, your _coach_ , about this? I’m the one responsible for ensuring you’re properly prepared for competition. How can I do that if you withhold details about your fitness?”

“And _I_ know my limits,” Lexa fires back, eyebrows pulling together. “I’m telling you I’ll be ready.”

“Look, entertaining as it is to witness you two having a blue,” Anya says, stepping smoothly between them before Lexa does something reckless like fling her racket at Titus’s bald head, “bickering isn’t gonna fix that gammy hammy. Lucky for you both, I’m the one with the smarts around here. I’ve teed up an appointment with a fancy specialist this arvo.” The look of outrage she receives from Lexa at this betrayal doesn’t faze Anya. She shrugs. “Yeah, I went behind your back because you’re a dill. You can thank me later with a tinnie on the terrace.”

Lexa opens her mouth to protest but Titus jabs a finger at her and growls, “You’re going.” Stomping away before she can get a single word out.

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


“Lexa Woods?”

A husky voice cuts through the background music—a panpipe instrumental of Adele’s ‘Rolling in the Deep’ that’s presumably meant to be soothing but has been getting on Lexa’s nerves ever since she took a seat in the plush waiting area—and she looks up to see a blonde woman emerge from one of the treatment rooms, a bright, easy smile on her face as she approaches.

“Hi, I’m Clarke.”

Lexa stares.

Because, oh.

 _Oh_.

It’s just… with a name like Clarke, Lexa had assumed her appointment was with a male physio. But, no, Clarke is very evidently a woman.

An exceptionally pretty woman.

(As much as she tries to refrain from ogling, Lexa can’t help noticing the way those slim but shapely curves fill out the uniform—a red polo shirt and dark grey slacks—because she’s only human and super fucking gay.)

It all throws Lexa for a loop.

Takes her half a moment to realise she’s gaping like an idiot. She snaps her jaw shut. Wordlessly gets up and follows Clarke into the room.

“So,” Clarke drags the word out and glances down at her notes, “you’re a tennis player, yes? I’m guessing you’re here for Wimbledon. It must be—”

Lexa blows out a rattled, impatient breath. “Could we just cut to the chase?”

Pleasant as Clarke seems to be, Lexa’s here under duress and she doesn’t much feel like making smalltalk.

She starts to reel off the facts, counting on her fingers. “It’s a grade one lateral hamstring strain. I picked it up at a tournament in Dubai in February. The injury recurred at the French Open just over a month ago. I felt a little sore after training on Monday and I followed the RICE protocol for the next 48 hours.” She drops her hands to her sides. “I had a minor setback this morning but I rested, iced it on and off, and I’m good now. So if you could just complete whatever paperwork it is you need to do to sign me off, so I can get my coaches off my back, I’d be grateful.”

In the thick silence that follows it occurs to Lexa, belatedly, how unnecessarily blunt she’d been but it’s a little late to backtrack. Besides, she’s still pissed at Titus and Anya for making her come here in the first place. There’s nothing this ‘specialist’ can tell her that she doesn’t already know and it’s wasting precious time that could otherwise be spent preparing for her first round match.

Perhaps a full five seconds elapse before Clarke blinks slowly. Then something flashes across her expression, a flicker of annoyance before she appears to collect herself.

Flinty blue eyes bore into Lexa’s green and she isn’t aware that she’s retreating until her backside nudges up against the edge of the exam table. She jolts slightly but doesn’t look away.

“Miss Woods, I don’t know who you think you’re dealing with,” Clarke says, advancing a step. There’s an undercurrent of steel to her tone, made all the more stern by her accent. She sounds like Mary Poppins with a 20-a-day smoking habit and Lexa doesn’t know why that and the icy formality of the ‘Miss Woods’ makes her insides feel so fluttery but it does.  

“Just so we’re clear: as a fully qualified physiotherapist, I’m in charge here and I’ll let you know what treatment is appropriate once I’ve looked at you and assessed what the issue is.”

Clarke pronounces ‘issue’ like ‘issyou’. Like a BBC news anchor. And, even in her aggravated state, Lexa finds it inexplicably charming. Until Clarke jerks her chin and enunciates with devastating precision, “Now stop sulking and sit your arse down so I can get to work.”

Surprised and affronted at Clarke’s brusque manner (aren’t Brits supposed to be polite?) Lexa feels her face grow hot. She sets her jaw and draws herself up to her full height. Admittedly, she’s only got a couple of inches on Clarke but Lexa’s always been able to project more authority than her slight frame would suggest.

“Yeah, well, I’m a pro and this isn’t my first PT session. I know what’s wrong.”

Clarke is unmoved by the bluster and posturing. She only lifts one eyebrow, challenging.

Waits.

Lexa grinds her teeth. A muscle below her eye ticks while they stare each other down. And in a half second of weakness, Lexa’s struck by the inconvenient truth that Clarke isn’t just pretty.

She’s hot.

A _spunk_ , to borrow one of Anya’s sayings.

Especially when provoked.

Lexa swallows. Wets suddenly dry lips. “Fine.”

If there’s a slight crack in her voice, she ignores it. Makes a show of rolling her eyes before she boosts herself onto the table. Figures that if she cooperates then this ordeal will be over with a lot sooner.

  
  
  


***

  
  


Lexa casts her gaze around the room. Taking in the rubber plant in the corner; the corkboard covered in pamphlets and illustrations of various stretching techniques; a framed certificate from the Chartered Society of Physiotherapy next to a degree diploma from the University of East Anglia; a poster of a kitten dangling from a tree branch with the motivational caption “hang in there” that’s pinned above the iMac on the standing desk. She nearly snorts as soon as she sees it, the only hint of personality in an otherwise nondescript space.

But the mental cataloguing of the decor is just an attempt to distract herself.

Because she’s highly attuned to Clarke’s nearness and she’s trying not to let it affect her as she lies supine, leg extended towards the ceiling. One of Clarke’s hands supports her kneecap, the other wrapped around her ankle while Lexa pushes against the resistance.

She only half-listens to Clarke counting the seconds; ten, before she tells Lexa to relax.

“Use your hips to lift your leg as high as you can,” Clarke says, drawing Lexa’s attention back to her, giving a nod of encouragement.

Lexa pushes up, up until she reaches her limit, the muscles at full stretch. And, God, does she feel it. She has to bite her cheek to contain a whimper.

“That’s good,” Clarke says. “Keep it straight for ten seconds.”

Lexa blows out a puff of air through her nostrils. Says flippantly, “Something I’ve never been able to do.”

The speed at which Clarke goes from confusion to comprehension almost makes Lexa laugh. As does the lovely shade of pink that tints Clarke’s cheeks. But, to her credit, she recovers quickly. A wry smile touches her lips. One dark blonde eyebrow arches.

“Join the club.”

Their eyes catch and hold, implicit understanding passing between them, and suddenly the ache along her thigh is the furthest thing from Lexa’s mind. Whatever residual grumpiness she’d been holding on to melts away, replaced by intrigue.

From that point onwards she studies Clarke’s movements with new fascination. How she stretches Lexa out for the repetitions, her touch gentle but purposeful.

A flutter of something stirs in Lexa’s belly as her eyes roam over Clarke’s features while she works, taking in the tiny furrow of concentration between her eyebrows, the freckle above her lip, the shallow dimple in her chin, the brilliant blue of her eyes.

Lexa can’t remember ever seeing eyes that blue. They remind her of home, of a vast clear Miami sky.

They almost make Lexa forget her current position until Clarke coaxes her leg down.

And she’s sure she isn’t imagining the long shaky exhale from Clarke as she steps away.

  
  
  


***

  
  


“Does this hurt?”

Clarke digs her thumbs into the lower part of Lexa’s thigh, just above the back of her knee.

Lying face down on the table, Lexa makes a noise in the affirmative.

“On a scale of one to ten? One being minimal; ten being bloody agony, you’re killing me, please stop immediately.”

Despite the small discomfort she feels at the pressure, Lexa’s lips twitch in amusement. “Two.”

Warm hands shift upwards. “And here?”

“Same.”

“Here?”

Lexa can’t suppress the soft grunt and subsequent hitch of pained breath when Clarke prods hard at a particularly tender spot. “Five. Definite five.”

Clarke moves to the top of Lexa’s thigh, close to the swell of her ass, fingertips grazing along the edge of her running shorts, and Lexa tenses at the touch. Pure reflex.

“How about here?”

(Does Clarke sound huskier than before? Or are Lexa’s ears deceiving her?)

She has to force her jaw to work and her own voice comes out a little rough when she says, “Three.”

Clarke lingers for another second or two and Lexa feels an acute pang of disappointment at the loss of contact when Clarke removes her hands from her body altogether.

Because Clarke’s hands are… wow.

Firm and sure and steady as they apply pressure with expert confidence. But, also, _soft_. Maybe it’s the lotion that adds to their suppleness, Lexa doesn’t know. All she knows is that she’s never met anyone with hands this fucking soft. It feels like velvet on her skin.

As soon as Clarke enters her field of vision, Lexa schools her features into a neutral mask. Like she hadn’t just spent the last few minutes perving over Clarke’s ultra-talented fingers.

“So what’s the verdict?”

“You’ve strained the mid biceps femoris. As you’re already aware,” Clarke says, a droll lilt to her words, and it makes Lexa cringe internally to be reminded of her earlier arrogance, “RICE is the standard therapy for this kind of injury. I think you’d also benefit from alternative stretching techniques and deep tissue massage over the course of the next couple of days. Depending on your progress we can begin to introduce more strenuous rehab exercises.”

Clarke glances at the analogue watch on her wrist. It’s vintage, fairly chunky, the leather strap scuffed and worn; definitely a man’s, and Lexa’s curious to know if there’s a story behind it.

“We do have a bit of time left so I’d like to get started with some floor stretches right away, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah.” Lexa clears her throat. “Sure.”

She aims for nonchalance, not quite sure that she succeeds. Because she knows what this entails, having endured similar treatment following the French Open.

It was intense.

And the PT who administered it then didn’t look anything like Clarke. Wasn’t remotely as attractive.

Oh God, she’s fucked.

  
  
  


***

  
  


Nothing could have adequately prepared Lexa for this: being spread flat on her back on a floor mat, Clarke kneeling between her legs, Lexa’s calf propped over her shoulder. The way Clarke’s leaning into her, over her, giving her that deep kind of stretch. Massaging the area where leg meets hip, getting right up in the glutes.

How intimate it feels. How her mind can’t help going to a dirty place.

Because Clarke’s breathing has quickened and her eyes are dark. She seems to be taking great care to avoid meeting Lexa’s eyes directly. It makes Lexa wonder what’s going through her head; if Clarke’s just as affected by this proximity, the touching, as she is.

While Clarke continues to stretch her out, Lexa’s gaze wanders. Drawn to Clarke’s chest, to the peek of cleavage visible at the open neck of the polo shirt. A shirt that’s snug and clingy across an ample bust; tight enough to show the twin bumps of nipples through the fabric.

Honestly, Lexa doesn’t mean to stare but Clarke’s breasts are just so _there_.

Her eyes only snap up to somewhere more appropriate when Clarke speaks.

“Let me know if it’s too much.”

Fuck, it is. But not in the way Clarke means.

Too much and not enough and when Clarke digs in deep to her glutes once again, Lexa has to tamp down on the moan that rises up her throat, pressing her lips together hard.

She’s already turned on beyond belief but the sweep of Clarke’s fingers close to the spot where inner thigh meets groin is the tipping point. She wriggles on the mat, uncomfortably aware of the dampness of her underwear. Right now she’s glad she kept her bulky hoodie on because this situation is awkward enough without Clarke being able to see her nipples standing at attention.

It’s the shift of Lexa’s hips, the sudden movement, that causes Clarke to look at her, finally.

And that eye contact… it’s electric.

It shorts Lexa’s brain. Sends a bolt down her spine, has another hot trickle of arousal pooling between her legs. This time she isn’t quick enough to prevent the noise that escapes her mouth. It’s small, barely more than a gasp, but it sounds so loud and overtly sexual in the otherwise quiet treatment room.

In the ensuing silence the tips of Lexa’s ears burn, but the shame she ought to feel at giving herself away never arises.

Not when Clarke’s staring at her like that in return. Pupils dark and wide. Lashes fluttering as her eyes rake over Lexa’s face, settling on her mouth for the span of a few heavy seconds before drifting back up to lock on to her eyes.

Time seems to slow to a standstill while they watch each other, drinking one another in.

Lexa shivers into the splay of Clarke’s hands, feeling every minuscule flex and twitch of Clarke’s fingers where they rest upon her skin.

She parts her lips, about to say something, only for the discordant chime of Clarke’s phone alarm to disturb the moment and sever their connection.

Clarke looks away first, her cheeks flushing red.

“I think we’re done for this session,” she says, the raspiness of her voice more pronounced.

Part of Lexa—the part that would’ve been absolutely fine if Clarke had ‘accidentally’ let a finger slip—wants to scream. The rest just wants to get out of here as quickly as possible so she can take care of the problem herself.

  
  
  


***

  
  


Afterwards, Clarke’s demeanour is inscrutable. Like she’s doubling down on maintaining a professional detachment to compensate for that brief blip when everything seemed charged and fraught with possibility.

It’s almost as if it never happened. Although the dull ache, the cling of wet cotton between Lexa’s legs reminds her that it definitely did.

“I want you to come back tomorrow,” Clarke says, eyes on the computer screen.

“Can’t get enough of me, huh?”

Clarke spares an unimpressed glance, lips downturned in a small frown. It looks cute on her and Lexa finds herself fighting a smile.

Clarke’s all business when she asks, “Do you have an afternoon workout?”

“Yeah. I train twice a day; drills in the morning then match practice and strength work at the gym in the afternoon.”

“Okay.” Clarke clicks around a few times with the mouse, eyes scanning the calendar on screen. “Hmm... I can fit you in at 4pm.”

“Perfect.”

From her perch on the table, Lexa studies Clarke’s profile while she’s busy with the computer. Eyes tracing the straight line of Clarke’s nose, the strong curve of her jaw, the tendrils of blonde hair too short for her ponytail that are tucked behind her ears. Idly, Lexa wonders what Clarke looks like with her hair down. Imagines loose golden waves falling just above her shoulders. The thought of running her fingers through the soft strands and tugging lightly on the ends has Lexa biting her lip.

“You should come directly from training, while your body is still warm. In the meantime: rest for the remainder of the night, continue icing and take it easy in your morning workout. Light jogging is fine, provided you’re not feeling any pain, otherwise you should avoid any high-impact activity. Any questions?”

Lexa shakes herself out of her daze to answer “no.” Watches Clarke grab an appointment card from the plastic holder on the desk, scribbling down the date and time. She’s left-handed. Why this discovery is such a novelty, Lexa can’t explain, but it pleases her nonetheless.

Clarke holds out the card and Lexa hops off the table, reaching to take it. But Clarke doesn’t let go immediately. “My emergency contact number is on the back.”

The way she stresses ‘emergency’ doesn’t escape Lexa’s attention. It’s a re-establishment of boundaries. Tacitly letting her know that there won’t be a repeat of whatever flirtation occurred today.

She lifts her gaze to meet Clarke’s, a significant look passing between them, and Lexa nods in understanding. It’s stupid but she can’t help it if her heart sinks, just a little.

Clarke sucks in a quick breath and pivots away. “See you tomorrow, Lexa.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


By the time Lexa makes it back to the house, she’s worked herself into some kind of mood. Despondency and residual arousal and resurgent annoyance coalescing into something combative.

She finds Anya in the lounge with an open packet of Tim Tams on her lap, crumbs all down her chest, watching an episode of Masterchef Australia.

“How’d it go?” She asks around a mouthful of chocolate confectionery.

In lieu of a reply, Lexa pulls her hoodie off and throws it at Anya’s head.

“Hey! Watch my bikkies.”

“I can’t believe you sometimes.”

Peeling the garment off her face and tossing it aside, Anya scowls at her.

“Are you still doing your block about the appointment? It was for your own bloody good.”

“Yes. No.” Lexa blows out a harsh breath. “Just, don’t play the innocent.”

She waits, foot tapping, but Anya just gives her a look as if she’s the deranged one.

“You purposefully set me up with an insanely attractive PT just to mess with me.”

Anya continues staring for a beat then her face screws up. “Since when were you into blokes?”

Now it’s Lexa’s turn to be confused.

“What?” She shakes her head. “No. Clarke’s a woman.”

“Who the fuck is Clarke?”

“The physio!”

“But… you were supposed to see Lincoln. One of my coaching mates recommended him.”

There’s a pause, their mutual bafflement building before Anya scrambles up from the couch to find her phone. When she returns, she’s got her nose almost pressed to the screen.

“Shit, now it all makes sense. I missed his text from earlier. He had to switch appointments with a colleague because of some drama at home.”

“Oh.”

Righteous indignation a distant speck in the rearview mirror of her mind, Lexa suddenly feels foolish. She scratches the back of her neck, silently contemplating how best to extricate herself from this gracefully. Realises, too late, that she’s played right into Anya’s hands. Because there’s a speculative glint in those dark eyes, one that Lexa recognises all too well. It can only mean trouble.

“So…” An eyebrow flicks up. “Clarke, eh?”

Lexa remains quiet.

“When’s your next session?”

She works her jaw. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

Anya hums, clearly trying to contain a devious grin.

“Can I come? I wanna get a look at this hot Sheila who’s got your knickers in a twist.”

Lexa bares her teeth. “Not a fucking chance.”

The laughter that follows her as she storms out the room leaves her fuming once more.

  
  
  


***

  
  


For a while Lexa stews within the privacy of her room (the door locked this time to keep out unwanted intruders). She stares up at the ceiling from the bed, at the shapes cast by the sunlight filtering through the slats of the blinds, an ice pack wrapped in a towel pressed against the back of her thigh. Numbing her body, if not her mind.

She’s no longer angry, not really. She can admit to herself, grudgingly, that Anya does have her best interests at heart, even if Anya takes far too much enjoyment in needling her.

But that’s not what’s occupying her thoughts, preventing her from relaxing.

Despite all the work Clarke did on her, she still feels coiled tight. A pressure at the base of her spine that hasn’t dissipated since she got back.

Because she can’t get Clarke out of her head.

Can’t shake that image of Clarke leaning over her, that look in her eyes like she was two seconds away from grabbing Lexa and doing… what? Something that might get Clarke struck off the CSP and/or fired. (She doesn’t even know if that’s a possibility but there’s probably some code of conduct.)

And Clarke’s hands. God. Lexa can’t stop thinking about those hands. How they felt gliding over and kneading and gripping her thigh and—fuck.

It’s no use.

She can debate the ethics of this after she’s gotten herself off. Because she needs it. Release. Something to scrub away the thought of Clarke climbing onto the table and straddling her. It’s all she’s been able to think about since she lay down. The weight of Clarke pressing down on her, knees bracketing her hips. Dexterous fingers making short work of the zip-up hoodie. The rasp of the zipper being dragged down is so vivid in Lexa’s mind, she’s almost convinced she can hear it now.

Then hands, warm and soft, sliding over her abdomen. Muscles twitching beneath Clarke’s palms as they roam up, up, mapping every inch of available skin until they reach the edge of Lexa’s sports bra.

If she closes her eyes she can pretend that it’s Clarke touching her, not her own hands cupping her tits. Eager but still gentle. Pushing under the seam to get to the flesh below. Hard peaks poking against the centre of her palms. Rubbing and rolling the stiff buds under her fingers until she’s arching beneath the phantom hips pinning her down.

A sharp pinch of her nipples pulls a gasp from her, has her pelvis rising. She imagines the smug little smile that might adorn Clarke’s face, the dark glitter of heavy-lidded eyes. Fingers migrating back down the outside of her ribs, using the blunt edge of nails to raise goosebumps. Trailing back and forth, teasing, until she can’t take it anymore.

She shoves her shorts and underwear down her thighs. Doesn’t bother to expend the effort of taking them all the way off, just far enough to give herself room to manoeuvre. The instant the cool air meets her overheated skin, a quiet groan rumbles up her chest. She wastes no time in sliding a hand between her legs. Running her fingers through the wetness. She’s soaking. Clit swollen and already so sensitive to the touch. She knows it won’t take more than a few brisk, firm circles to get her there.

It’s what she should do.

Quick and perfunctory so she can get on with her day.

But she’s craving something more. It’s been a while—a week, maybe longer?—and she wants to feel that deep boneless satisfaction that only a good orgasm can bring.

She doesn’t normally do this. Not during competition or in the immediate days before.

Opting to channel her frustrations on the court instead, the tension adding another dimension of aggression to her game. On this occasion? She’s willing to cut herself some slack. Because, God, there was a hot woman touching her and she’s horny as fuck.

She’s aware that if she thinks about Clarke’s fingers, shorter and thicker and softer than her own, pressing inside, it’ll be crossing a line. Right this second, she doesn’t care. It feels too good. One finger, quickly followed by a second. She’s so wet she slips in easy, barely any resistance.

She imagines Clarke’s catch of breath as her fingers start to move. Slow, steady thrusts that she angles her hips up to meet. Pretends it’s Clarke filling her, fucking her, dark eyes eating her up as Clarke watches every reaction on her face with the same close attention she showed during their PT session.

Would Clarke be a talker? That scratchy voice telling Lexa how good she feels, what Clarke wants to do to her…

A moan bursts free and Lexa doesn’t have the mental capacity to care about volume control.

Not when she’s so close.

Not when she’s thinking about Clarke’s thumb sweeping over her clit. Keeping the same languid pace. Making Lexa do the work. Grinding into her palm, rocking her pelvis up faster, chasing that friction. The pressure building, coiling tighter in the pit of her stomach.

She thinks about Clarke’s eyes, pupils blown wide. Pink cheeks and the curve of her mouth. That freckle. Lips parting, forming the shape of Lexa’s name. The way Clarke says it, how her voice breaks slightly between the ‘e’ and the ‘x’.

Before Lexa knows it, heat is rushing over her, and her thighs are tensing, and a choked gasp lodges itself in her throat. She lets out a desperately loud moan. Hips surging forward, toes curling, digging into the blankets as her spine arches off the bed.

When her ass finally lands back on the covers she’s panting, still shuddering a little, hand trembling as she pulls it away.  

Fuck.

She hasn’t had a better finish since she smashed a match point into the far corner of the service box against Emori Nomados in the second round of the French Open.

A triumphant smile tugging at her lips, she lets her head loll back. Eyes closed in bliss, limbs relaxed, practically melting into the softness of the mattress.

Until she hears footsteps outside the door.

“Next time you’re gonna rub one out, you might wanna put some loud music on.”

Fucking _Anya_.

Lexa grits her teeth.

“Sounded like Sharapova, Seles, and Azarenka were having a threeway in there.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


At training the next morning Titus puts her through easy paces, repetitive drills that don’t require much movement, focusing instead on control and technique.

He’s short with her the whole day, barely exchanging a civil word at lunch.

Anya keeps throwing pointed looks, a knowing smirk on her face every time Lexa glances at her watch during the afternoon practice. As the hour wears on it becomes a growing struggle to maintain concentration. Every minute that passes is a minute closer to her appointment.

Taking care of ‘business’ yesterday was supposed to put Clarke out of her mind. And it did. Until she woke up with her hand inside her sleep shorts and Clarke’s name on her lips. In the shower she turned the temperature way down, colder than usual, to blast away all thoughts of soft hands and hooded eyes and that _voice_.

Now she’s wishing she’d taken the edge off again. Because the prospect of seeing Clarke, of Clarke touching her body, has Lexa’s stomach in knots.

(How is it possible that she’s more nervous about spending two hours with a gorgeous physio than she was about playing in her first grand slam final? It’s ridiculous.)

By the time 3.30 rolls around, she’s never made a faster beeline for the locker room. She stops only to grab her kit bag and spray deodorant under her armpits, ignoring Anya’s sly insinuation “have fun getting horizontal with Clarke” and Titus’s subsequent confused double take when they part ways at reception.

  
  


***

  
  


Clarke hasn’t stepped more than a foot outside the treatment room before Lexa shoots up from the plastic chair to intercept her in the hallway. Fully absorbed in the tablet in her hand, Clarke only just glances up in time to narrowly avoid a collision.

“Lexa.” The surprise in her tone gives way to something else as blue eyes flit along Lexa’s bare legs, seeming to stall at the tops of her thighs for a brief moment. “Um. Hello.”

The instant they lock eyes, Lexa’s throat constricts.

Because the Clarke of her fevered imagination, the mental picture of Clarke she’d abused to reach a fast and powerful climax, the things she’d thought about Clarke doing to her… it all comes flooding back.

What’s worse is that fantasy Clarke has got nothing on the real thing. She’s even sexier than Lexa remembered. The fitted t-shirt she’s wearing clings to the generous curves of her breasts and the slope of her abdomen, short sleeves exposing the subtle musculature of her toned upper arms. Her hair is loose, a few sections pinned back off her face, and her makeup is a little less subtle than yesterday. Gloss on her lips, a defined stroke to the eyeliner that makes the blue of her irises all the more striking.

The overall effect leaves Lexa dry-mouthed, staring.

It can’t be more than a few seconds but it feels like an eternity before she manages to speak. “Hi,” she says, and the word trips out stilted and breathless and ever so slightly high pitched. It’s the opposite of the smooth greeting she’d been practising in her head while she waited.

The answering closed-lipped smile and small incline of Clarke’s head towards the treatment room does nothing to settle the flurry in Lexa’s stomach or the wriggle of guilt she feels. That this woman gave her the best orgasm in recent memory without laying a single finger on her and Clarke’s completely unaware of it.

Fuck. What was she thinking?

The next two hours are going to be more torturous than a ten-minute ice bath.

  
  
  


***

  
  


The moment the hot pack meets Lexa’s skin she’s powerless to stop a small moan, the sound only partially muffled by the cushion of her forearm.

Clarke pauses. “Are you okay?

“Yeah.” Lexa’s glad her face is half obscured, that Clarke can’t really see her full expression from where she’s standing, even if Lexa knows her ears are tipped red. “S’nice.”

There’s a huff of expelled breath from somewhere behind Lexa, what could be a quiet laugh, and it thrills through her.

“How was training? Did you experience any discomfort or pain?”

Clarke replaces the weighted pad along the back of Lexa’s thigh and another low rumble of pleasure rises up her throat. Any embarrassment she might feel is quickly superseded by sheer bliss at the way the heat sinks into her muscles. It feels divine.

“Some tightness towards the end of afternoon practice, but it wasn’t sore.”

“Hm.”

Within minutes she feels the tension seeping from her body. It loosens her tongue, too.

“Clarke, I… I wanted to say I’m sorry. About my behaviour yesterday.”

“It’s fine.” A gentle touch to her shoulder makes Lexa shiver; she feels it all the way down to her toes. “Sometimes things can get a bit weird during PT, but it’s just the body’s response to applied stimulus. Perfectly natural, nothing to worry about.” Clarke’s voice turns wry. “Anyway, it made a nice change from being chatted up by Premiership footballers.”

The idea of Clarke being hit on by douchey soccer players makes something unpleasant spike in Lexa’s gut but she pushes it down.

“Actually, I meant my rudeness. This bratty American coming in and throwing my weight around, telling you how to do your job. So, I’m sorry for that.”

“Oh.”

Clarke adjusts the pack and Lexa tries not to react too obviously to the brush of fingers against her skin.

“I see. Well. Apology accepted, then.”

The silence stretches for a few beats.

Lexa licks her bottom lip. “I’m not sorry about the other part.”

There’s another faint exhalation from Clarke, ambiguous in its meaning, and Lexa wishes she could see Clarke’s face without craning her neck.

“Let’s move on, shall we?”

Clarke sounds calm, controlled. Only the barest hint of a waver in her voice.

  
  
  


***

  
  


“This might feel a tad cold to begin with.”

Lexa hears a squirt, followed by the squelch of hands being slicked up and rubbed together, and she burrows her nose further into the crook of her elbow to brace herself.

When the cool lotion meets her skin, her first instinct is to lock up but the heat of Clarke’s palms soon mitigates the coldness.

Clarke begins by bringing Lexa’s leg up into a shortened position, ankle propped against Clarke’s shoulder. With her thumbs she palpates the back of Lexa’s thigh, digging in deep and spreading the muscle fibres wide.

“How are we doing on the pain scale?”

Lexa bites back a groan. “Five.”

Clarke repeats the motion a little higher up. Working along the biceps femoris in incremental steps for another minute. Gradually Lexa feels the tightness begin to loosen, the muscle softening beneath Clarke’s magic hands.

“And now?”

“About a three.”

She keeps stretching the area, pressing in slightly harder now, checking in with Lexa verbally once another minute has elapsed. For the next pass, Clarke changes up the technique, using a broader motion, placing the heels of her hands along either side of Lexa’s thigh, kneading outwards.

Lexa has to clamp her lips together to prevent a moan from leaking out. Because it feels good, the kind of good that has her mind drifting back to yesterday unbidden.

But, no, _no_ , she can’t allow herself to dwell on that. Not when Clarke’s straying this close to her groin.

She wonders if Clarke can feel the heat radiating from her.

It makes her want to tilt her hips up. Aches for it. All she would need to do is raise her ass slightly and Clarke’s fingers would be grazing her.

She isn’t even aware that she’s squirming until Clarke asks, “Is this causing you too much discomfort? Where are we on the scale?”

She manages to respond with an airy, “No. It’s a two.”

“Alright. Try to keep still please, Lexa.”

The strict edge to the instruction, the raspy sound of her name from Clarke’s mouth, only serves to make Lexa more conscious of the damp patch in her underwear.

She tries to focus on the localised sensations, not to let her thoughts leap forward. Not to daydream about Clarke hooking those fingers into the waistband of her shorts and dragging them slowly down. Taking her underwear with them. Exposing her to the cool air circulating around the room. Trailing soft hands over the curve of her ass. Dipping into the wetness between her legs…

Clarke’s hands still, thumbs pressing into the cord of muscle down the centre of Lexa’s thigh.

“Lexa?”

“Sorry.” More of a whimper than a word. She squeezes her eyes shut. Concentrates on the rush of blood in her ears, the amplified thud of her heartbeat.

By the time Clarke uses her forearm to work the length of Lexa’s thigh, returning to the top and going a little deeper each time, Lexa has to turn her face into her own arm, biting down to stifle a moan.

“How’s that?”

The husk of Clarke’s voice isn’t helping. Because Lexa can’t help thinking about all the sordid things she imagined Clarke whispering into her ear while she touched herself.

She pulls in a breath and lets it out slowly. “Two,” she says, the word muffled against her forearm.

God, she feels hot and quivery all over. Knows without a doubt that if Clarke’s fingers go near the sensitive top of her inner thigh again then she won’t be able to hold back the next noise.

Thankfully, she’s given a reprieve in the form of isometric contractions.

“So, I’m going to place some resistance here,” Clarke says as she presses her thumbs parallel to the midpoint of Lexa’s lateral hamstring, “and I want you to contract.” Lexa does. “And release.”

They repeat the exercise, another three sets of five. Each time Lexa feels her muscles gain a little more fluidity and flexibility. It calms her, gives her some control back now that she’s no longer a passive participant.

Clarke eases the leg down until it's flat on the table once more.

“How does it feel?”

“Better.” Lexa clears her throat, ridding herself of the damning scratchiness. “Much looser.”

“Good. We’ll do some general massage then we can try a few strength exercises and see how you get on, okay?”

For the next few minutes Clarke’s hands move over the full length of Lexa’s leg, working every inch of her calf and thigh with enough vigour to have Lexa biting her lip.

But it’s fine. She’s keeping it together.

Until Clarke gets all up in her glutes, fingers splayed and kneading at the lower swell of her ass, and Lexa can’t prevent the soft, breathy “fuck” that slips out.

They both freeze.

Nobody says a word.

Then Clarke’s hands shift to a safer place, giving a few cursory last squeezes of the back of Lexa’s thigh.

As soon as Clarke steps away, Lexa turns her head to surreptitiously watch Clarke cross the room to grab a towel to wipe her hands. She sees the distracted way Clarke touches her forehead, the flush that sits high on her cheeks, and when Clarke returns to the table her pupils are huge.

She looks just as flustered as Lexa feels.

  
  
  


***

  
  


Now that Lexa knows, beyond doubt, that Clarke is no more immune to their physical contact than she is, the nerves dissipate.

Now that she _knows_ , she wants to savour every little clue.

Part of her wants to see how far she can push.

While they do a bridging activity—Lexa prone on the mat, legs bent, feet placed on top of a box, Clarke knelt beside her—Clarke stares a little too long and hard when Lexa lifts her pelvis up off the floor, one of Clarke’s hands hovering near her hip to offer support.

Lexa holds the position a second or two longer than she needs to, glutes clenched, calves flexing, and she doesn’t miss the way Clarke draws her bottom lip between her teeth, how her eyes linger.

It’s a struggle for Lexa to hide her smirk.

The second hour passes in a blur of reps: single leg bridges, standing heel flicks and stationary strides with a Theraband attached to Lexa’s left ankle, working the inner range of muscles under Clarke’s close supervision. Clarke monitoring Lexa’s form and technique, checking she’s performing the activities correctly and whether they cause any pain.

It doesn’t leave much room for idle chit-chat, not until Clarke’s typing up some notes on the iMac.

Lexa’s eyes flit to the framed degree diploma on the wall, curiosity getting the better of her. “How long have you been a PT?”

Clarke glances over. “Is this you questioning my credentials again?”

“No.” Lexa shakes her head, a burgeoning smile breaking free. “I learned my lesson last time.”

They share a look. Amused. Almost conspiratorial. A little taken by one another (Lexa hopes). Clarke’s the first to end the eye contact, turning her attention back to the computer.

“To answer your question: almost four years. After graduation I spent a year based in a hospital, two years at Fulham FC, then I joined this private practice ten months ago.”

“And you usually work with soccer—uh, football players or…?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Clarke sighs. “Grown men can be such babies.” Her hands fly over the keyboard, as adept at typing as she is at manipulating muscles. “I’m afraid I’m largely clueless about tennis.”

“I guessed that much. I mean, you didn’t recognise me.” Off Clarke’s raised eyebrow, Lexa laughs quietly. “Okay, that sounded way less conceited in my head. I just meant that I’m a top thirty seed and anyone who follows the WTA tour knows who I am. And… I’m digging a deeper hole for myself, aren’t I?”

“Mhm.” Clarke looks over again, and there’s a slight curve to her lips, a gleam in her eyes. “I may not be a tennis fan but I think I could learn to appreciate certain aspects of the sport.”

Lexa drops her gaze, her smile widening. She picks at an imaginary piece of lint on her shorts. “Maybe you should drop by Aorangi Park and watch me train sometime. I could show you a few strokes.”

When her eyes flick up it’s to find Clarke leaning against the desk, hip cocked and arms folded. The pose does wonders to accentuate her chest and Lexa doesn’t even try to hide her appreciation.

“Lexa, I—”

Whatever Clarke was going to say is interrupted by the rude chime of her phone, signalling the end of their session. And with that Clarke shifts back into clinical mode.

“Same time tomorrow, then?”

  
  
  


***

  
  


While she waits for the cab outside, enjoying the early evening sunshine—this leafy, paved patio at the front of the clinic is a gorgeous little sun trap, the air fragrant with the flowers in bloom along the borders—Lexa retrieves the appointment card from the side pocket of her kit bag.

She flips the card over to look at the handwritten number on the back, the digits wide and looping. Debates with herself for a full minute then pulls out her phone.

 _I’ll be on court 15 from_ _9am and 2pm tomorrow—Lexa_.

She hits send before she can second-guess the decision.

Waits, gnawing on her bottom lip.

It isn’t until she’s in the backseat of the black cab, a few minutes away from the house and idling at the traffic lights, half convinced that she somehow misread the situation, the slow dawning of doubt creeping up on her, that her phone chirps with a text notification.

She can’t hold back the grin that splits her cheeks when she reads the reply.

 _Will there be coffee? I can’t function without caffeine before 10am_.

Her thumbs move rapidly over the screen as she types out her response.

 _I’ll have my coach bring an extra thermos_.

  
  
  


***

  
  


“What’s got you so chirpy?” Anya asks as Lexa sweeps into the kitchen at breakfast, humming under her breath, a light spring in her step.

Anya points her cereal spoon at Lexa, indicating her general disposition. “You look like the dingo that ate the baby.”

One glance at the deep frown etched on Lexa’s face and Anya shrugs, conceding.

“Yeah, reckon that probably is a bit too morbid for this early in the morning. Still, the observation stands.”

Lexa plucks the earbuds hanging from around her neck, pulls off the velcro phone holder armband, and sets them down on the table. She shrugs. “Just feeling refreshed after my run. And glad to be back to some semblance of normality.”

Anya tilts her head, assessing, and Lexa shifts under the scrutiny, going over to the sink to pour herself a glass of water. She drains it quickly.

“Yeah, nah, that’s not it. You had the same vibe last night when you got back from PT.”

Lexa wanders into the hallway to grab a towel from the closet, and when she returns Anya’s leaning against the island, her arms crossed.

“How’re you going, anyway? You’ve been pretty tight-lipped about it all.”

 _Not entirely_ , Lexa thinks.

“We’re making good progress.”

She dabs at her forehead and temples with the towel, the top of her chest, neck and shoulders, drying off the sweat rapidly cooling on her skin.

“We?”

“I am,” she corrects.

Anya continues to stare and Lexa twists the towel in her hands.

“What do you want me to say? Clarke’s an excellent PT. The treatment is working. That’s it.”

“A ‘thank you’ would be nice, for starters. I had to pull some strings and trade a few favours to get you that first appointment. There’s a waiting list as bloody long as your arm for that place.”

Lexa resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Thank you, Anya. I appreciate the effort you went to on my behalf.” It’s mostly sincere. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go take a shower because I stink.”

She’s halfway to the door when Anya says, “You might not be thanking me when they call in those favours.”

Lexa stops and swivels around, pinning Anya with a severe look.

“What did you do?”

Anya scratches her nose. Examines her cuticles. Stalls until Lexa repeats the question with a little more menacing force.

Dark eyes cut to the side and Anya releases a sigh.

“I promised the owner you’d visit his daughter’s primary school next week. Give an inspirational speech at assembly. The three pillars of being a champion, blah, blah, blah. Teach the brats how to hit a few balls. All that good community outreach bullshit the WTA loves.”

She dodges the sweat-saturated towel Lexa launches at her, proving that her impressively quick reflexes are still intact.

“It’ll be good for your image,” Anya calls after Lexa’s retreating form. “Already squared it with Indra. She said just to make sure the Nike logo features prominently in the photo ops. And try not to make the kids cry.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Once she’s warmed up and returned a few easy rallies with Anya on the court, Lexa’s buoyant mood resurfaces. Not even Titus’s nagging criticism of her backhand can put a pin in it, although she’s glad when he slopes off to speak with the bookings manager about getting some practice time on Court 1 later.

It’s while she’s swapping out her racket for the Wilson Blade with hybrid 16L gauge strings—and taking a quick snap for Instagram (#newbaby)—that she hears a long, low whistle.

“Incoming hottie at 8 o’clock.”

Lexa turns to see and it’s like a slo-mo movie scene cliché playing out: Clarke, strutting along the pathway that runs adjacent to the court, blonde locks swept behind her by the breeze. Sunglasses on. Visitor’s lanyard swinging with every step. Another form-fitting tee. Tote bag slung over one shoulder. She’s wearing blue skinny jeans, the rips at the knees and thighs exposing glimpses of pale skin.

All Lexa can do is gape, her jaw dropping slightly.

“Christ on a cracker,” Anya says, one hand shielding her eyes from the low sun.

“Anya.”

“Wait. Oh shit, she’s coming over here.”

“ _Anya_.”

“What?” Distracted.

“That’s Clarke.”

Anya tears her eyes away from the approaching vision of effortless cool to stare at Lexa, incredulous.

“When you said she was ‘insanely attractive’, I thought you meant by _your_ standards. I was picturing some dag in trackies with a mullet.”

She glances back towards Clarke, now rounding the chain link fence that hems in the practice courts.

“Tits McGee is hotter than a snag on a beach barbie in December.”

“She isn’t your type.”

“Are you fucking kidding? She’s everyone's type. Have you pashed her yet?”

Lexa hisses, “ _Anya_.”

They share a long, pointed look, disengaging just as Clarke reaches them with a gravelly, drawled “hello,” pushing the sunglasses up to perch on top of her head.

And, oh, Lexa isn’t ready for how _blue_ those eyes are in natural light, how Clarke’s easy smile makes her heart pound an unsteady rhythm.

“Clarke. Hi.”

She tries to rein in her own smile, the warmth that suffuses her chest at Clarke’s presence. Because she’s super conscious of Anya’s eyes boring into her cheek and she wants to mitigate the inevitable snark she’s going to receive about this later.

“This is Anya, my assistant coach and oldest friend. Emphasis on the old. Anya—Clarke, my physio.”

“The famous Clarke…” There’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of Anya’s mouth. “Lexa’s told me bugger all about you. A pleasure.”

She offers her hand to shake and Clarke accepts it, the slight scrunch of her brow betraying her puzzlement, clearly picking up on the veiled insinuation, the suggestion of a conversation she hasn’t been privy to. She glances briefly towards Lexa, curious.

“Likewise,” Clarke replies, gaze shifting back to Anya, letting go of her hand. “Seems I’m at a similar disadvantage. Lexa’s not much of a talker during our sessions.”

“Oh yeah, she’s a real quiet one alright,” Anya nods, her face placid, and Lexa thinks she’s going to leave it at that. “Except when she’s tossing off.”

One blonde eyebrow shoots upwards.

“She means my serve,” Lexa rushes to add, glaring at Anya. “Tossing the ball for my serve.”

Clarke looks like she’s attempting to suppress a smile. “Uh-huh. So, where can I find this coffee I was promised?”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Lexa’s practising her power serve, barrelling shots one after another into the top corner of the opposite deuce service box with almost unerring accuracy (“Show off,” Anya says, feeding another ball, and, yeah, maybe she is sort of basking in Clarke’s attention) when Titus finally returns.

From the corner of her eye, mid bend and coil of her body, she spots Clarke introduce herself, the dismissive up-down look Titus gives before he turns away, folding his arms.

The breathtaking display of rudeness makes Lexa falter. Sparks something protective and before she knows it she’s striding over there.

“Titus. A word?”

He covers his initial surprise with a curt nod, not sparing a second glance for Clarke as he wanders away to the relative seclusion of the rear fence, and it only makes Lexa’s blood boil more.

“Excuse us for a moment,” she says to Clarke.

Clarke looks uncomfortable, gaze swinging between Lexa and Titus’s back. “Should I go?”

“No. Stay.” Lexa’s reply is firm, forceful. She softens. Offers a small, tense smile. “Please, you’re my guest. I’d like you to stay. I mean, you haven’t even had a shot at returning my serve yet.”

A scoff. “As if. You’ve got the fastest serve in the women’s game.” Clarke backtracks slightly, lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “So I’ve heard, anyway.”

“Oh yeah? Thought you didn’t know anything about tennis?” Lexa takes a half step closer, a little grin pulling at her mouth. The way Clarke’s eyes dip to her collarbones, sweep up her neck and linger on her jaw, doesn’t escape Lexa’s notice. “Did you Google me or something?”

The idea of Clarke researching her, maybe immediately after their first session, or perhaps over a glass of wine last night, fills Lexa with a warm glow of satisfaction.

“No.” Clarke gives an exaggerated eye roll. “Lincoln—the guy who was supposed to be your physio? He’s a complete tennis obsessive. Regaled me with all the scintillating facts over lunch yesterday. Also, he begged me to ask you to sign one of your practice balls for him. Would you mind?”

“Not at all. I’d be happy to—”

“Lexa!”

She stiffens at Titus’s booming shout. She’d forgotten about him, entirely drawn into Clarke’s orbit. She peers over her shoulder to see him gesturing emphatically at the court, Anya loitering at his side wearing a bored expression.

Lexa sends Clarke an apologetic look. “I’ll be right back.”

The short walk to her coaches gives Lexa ample time to tap back into her ire, especially when Titus’s first words to her are: “What’s she doing here?”

“ _She_ has a name. _Clarke_ is here as my PT, to observe my movement and function,” Lexa says with a cold, contained kind of fury.

Titus scowls beneath heavy brows. “You can’t afford to lose focus at this stage.”

“Lose focus, how?” she demands.

“Hey, can we all just chill for a sec?” Anya interjects warily.

“No, Anya,” Lexa snaps. She reels it in just as quickly, composing herself in the space of a second. “I want to hear his reasoning. Is it the swift recovery I’ve made in the past couple of days thanks to Clarke’s treatment? The fact that every single serve I’ve done so far today landed with pinpoint precision? That I feel more confident and ready to compete in a grand slam than I ever have? How exactly am I losing focus, Titus?”

His nostrils flare. “I only meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Her voice issues crisp and clear, as sharp and incisive as a blade. “I value and respect your commitment, the wisdom you’ve imparted, the wealth of coaching experience you have, all the hard work you’ve put in over the years. But don’t think for a second that you’re irreplaceable.” She pulls in a breath and lets it out slowly. “You’re my employee. You’re _both_ my employees. I shouldn’t have to remind either of you that my personal life is none of your damn business. Understood?”

Her eyes flit between them, daring them to object. While Titus appears cowed—although a shade of rebellion remains in his dark stare—Anya seems impressed.

“Good. Then let’s continue with the drills.”

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


At PT that afternoon, Lexa’s overly cognizant of the minutes ticking down. Because it’s their last appointment. Midway through the session Clarke advised her that, all being well and if her hamstring holds, she won’t require further treatment.

Seventeen minutes remain.

After today—make that _sixteen_ minutes from now—it’s unlikely she’ll ever see Clarke again.

Lexa hates it. Is actually surprised at how viscerally opposed she is to the concept of Clarke just vanishing from her life. How strange and wonderful it is to have grown attached to someone she barely knows outside the confines of these four walls. It’s unprecedented, this longing she has to learn everything there is to know about Clarke. Every facet of her. What makes her laugh until she can’t breathe, what makes her angry or tearful or circumspect.

(What Clarke looks like when she comes...

But, God, there’s so much more to the pull she feels towards Clarke than that.)

She hasn’t felt this way, so quickly, about anyone. Hasn’t allowed herself to. Not since Costia. Whatever this is, she doesn’t want it to end yet.

It manifests in a tightness in Lexa’s abdomen that has nothing to do with her earlier workout. A rising kind of desperation, at odds with how subdued they both are on the surface.

And there's this palpable tension between them that Lexa isn’t sure how to dispel, all traces of their growing ease with one another gone. Even at training, after the confrontation with Titus, Clarke had been different. Preoccupied. Declining Lexa’s offer to teach her how to swing the racket. She’d made her excuses and left shortly afterwards without even getting a ball signed for her colleague, leaving Lexa perplexed and disappointed, and resentful of the disapproval wafting from Titus.

While they did the usual assessments and stretches, Clarke’s expression was unreadable, her touch precise, lasting only as long as strictly necessary. And Lexa hated that too. (So much.)

When Clarke retreats to sanitise her hands, wiping them clean with a paper towel, Lexa feels it: the sense of opportunity slipping away from her. So she rallies. Because she’s never been one to back down from something she wants, even if the odds are stacked against her. It’s the same determination that led her to victory in the Australian Open, defying all expectations.

“Ahead of your match I recommend you restrict yourself to light stretching,” Clarke says, tone neutral, her back to Lexa. “Relax, rest up, and get plenty of sleep.”

Slipping from the table, Lexa takes a few steps towards Clarke. If she hears Lexa’s approach she doesn’t react.

“Are you working tomorrow?”

“No, I have the day off.”

Lexa steels herself and reaches out to touch Clarke’s elbow, urging her to turn around. Feels the way Clarke goes rigid for an instant, the light shudder that passes through her. It bolsters Lexa’s nerve.

“Would you like to go out for coffee with me?” She chances a slight smile. “I mean, I don’t actually drink coffee but I could have a smoothie or—”

“Lexa.” Blue eyes fully meet Lexa’s own for the first time since she arrived at the clinic and she can see the conflict, the regret etched across Clarke’s face. Blonde brows knitted, the firm line of her lips. “I’m sorry, no. There are rules, professional standards. I’ve already—” Clarke shakes her head. “I can’t.”

Seconds pass while they search each other’s gaze. Until Lexa nods. Subtle, barely any movement at all. She swallows. Stomach sinking like a lead weight.

She takes a breath, drawing on deep wells of reserve when she says, “Of course. I understand.”

“I wish…” Clarke stops and offers a weak smile. “I wish you every success at Wimbledon and beyond. Good luck, Lexa.”

Lexa presses her lips together and nods once more in wordless thanks.

In that moment something inside her shrivels, hardens.

Because she realises how stupid she’s been these past few days. Indulging a crush that was never going to go anywhere.

Titus is right. Emotional entanglements are a weakness, a distraction that she doesn’t need, _cannot_ have. Not if she wants to win.

Winning is all that matters.


	2. Chapter 2

Monty’s Canteen is bright and airy, with tall windows, light wood fixtures, and mismatched tables and chairs. On Sundays, the neighbourhood haunt has a quiet, chilled kind of vibe, soundtracked by the soothing strains of ambient electronica. There are pockets of people scattered around—mainly hipsters nursing their hangovers over Bloody Marys and ‘recovery’ burgers.

Clarke occupies her favourite spot beside the window, so engrossed in watching the world outside pass by that she almost misses the chime of a new text notification.

_Sorry, running later than I thought! Order my usual, please? Promise I’ll be there in 5._

The waitress comes over, depositing Clarke’s cappuccino with a smile. She’s new, pretty, and the extended eye contact they shared when Clarke first arrived suggested more than just friendly customer service. At another time Clarke might have flirted but she feels out of sorts, has done since yesterday.

“Can I get you anything else?” The waitress has an accent; American or Canadian, Clarke isn’t sure, but it’s nice. The name badge pinned to her apron reads: Niylah. “Or are you waiting for someone?”

It seems like a loaded question, as if she’s fishing for information. Clarke presses her lips together to suppress a smile, flattered nonetheless.

“Yes, but he’ll be here soon, so could I have pancakes with bacon and Eggs Benedict for him, please?”

Niylah’s smile falters briefly but she covers it well, departing with a wry “coming right up.”

For a second Clarke watches her go before she shakes her head and turns her attention back to her phone. She taps out a reply to Lincoln, intends to put the phone down, but when she exits their conversation thread to return to the list of recent messages, a certain name catches her eye.

Lexa Woods.

The last text has a little blue dot beside it to indicate it’s still unopened. From the preview, the message is a neutral, concise ‘thanks for all your help, Clarke’, received last night and gone unanswered since. Perhaps it’s rude not to respond but the fact is Clarke doesn’t know what to say, wasn’t certain if it even warranted a reply, and seeing it now makes her stomach churn.

Because she remembers Lexa’s expression at the end of their appointment yesterday. How deflated Lexa had looked in that half second before she composed herself, the only tells of a bruised ego being the subtle tightening of her jaw, the gleam in her eyes as they cut away.

Afterwards, Clarke felt wretched, as though she’d done something heinous and unforgivable like kicked a puppy or voted for Brexit.

But it was the right decision to nip this… whatever it was in the bud, she knows that. Ethically, professionally, personally.

She’s never become involved with a client, never felt tempted to compromise herself in that way. Of course, she’s fancied people before (she does have 20/20 vision and a fine appreciation of an athletic physique, after all) but she was always able to compartmentalise it. Anyway, nine times out of ten, whenever clients open their mouths she feels her IQ drop by fifty points, which is usually enough to squash whatever nascent attraction she might feel towards them.

It hasn’t ever been much of an occupational hazard.

Until now.

Until Lexa Woods—this girl with an attitude a mile wide and legs for days—walked into her treatment room. Booty shorts on. Pouting up a storm. Acting as if Clarke was some fresh-out-of-school newbie who didn’t have a First from UEA and several years of clinical experience under her belt. A degree of cantankerousness is par for the course with injured sportspeople but Clarke hadn’t been expecting those _legs_ and that _face_ or the way Lexa spoke to her, at once haughty and dismissive. How it annoyed her. Infuriated her. That she found it all… kind of hot?

As the session went on, as she pretended not to notice that Lexa kept staring at her chest whenever she thought Clarke wasn’t looking, while she tried to block out the soft grunts and thoughts of what other interesting noises she might be able to get out of Lexa under different circumstances, the tension turned into something else, an energy that Clarke couldn’t quantify or explain. It buzzed under her skin. Left her feeling off kilter for the rest of the day.

Later that evening her curiosity got the better of her. Over a large glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, she’d gone snooping online and found Lexa’s Instagram. It was all trainers. Literally, just pictures of what shoes she was wearing (#sneakersoftheday); some sunrises from her runs; occasional photos of her assistant coach—Anya, wasn’t it?—looking vaguely pissed off; unappetising salads Lexa had for lunch; different protein shakes (#powerup); regrams of photo shoots, Lexa staring into the middle distance with a steely kind of intensity and a slight pout on her lips. Those ones Clarke lingered on, hesitating over the ‘like’ button before backing out.

If Lexa’s Instagram was dull then her Twitter was no less coma-inducing. Entirely factual. Match dates, results, retweets from the WTA and tournaments and online publications that contained mentions. The odd post about Nike or Gatorade or Subaru, presumably fulfilling contractual obligations to her sponsors. Bland things like “great result at the French Open.” Nothing that gave any clue to Lexa’s personality.

It frustrated Clarke because she couldn’t get a sense of who Lexa was as a person via social media at all.

Mainly she wanted to know if Lexa was single and she hated herself for it. But there was no hint and the not knowing bothered Clarke more than it should have, considering she had no intention of pursuing the woman.

When she found herself Googling “Lexa Woods dating” she knew it’d gone too far. She’d shut the browser window. Cleared the history, too, embarrassed at her own ridiculousness. She didn’t know why she was acting this way—okay, maybe she did—but she had to get a fucking grip. Told herself that if she stopped dwelling on it, the feelings would pass quickly, as these things always do.

But the attraction didn’t wane, not in the next session or the one after. Even when she told Lexa, gently but firmly that they couldn’t see each other, effectively putting an end to it, she still felt the lure. That flutter in her belly and dryness in her mouth and an overwhelming urge to touch.

And now it’s gnawing at her. Thoughts of the wounded expression on Lexa’s face, interspersed with the heated looks Lexa kept sending her way; hooded green eyes glued to Clarke the entire time while she worked; the flirting; the pouting; the _noises_. She’s no stranger to how vocal clients can be during treatment but she’s long since become inured to it. Or so she believed. But, goodness gracious, the sounds Lexa made during the deep tissue massage...

Clarke’s still stuck on that particular memory when Lincoln arrives.

“Clarke, hey. Sorry again.”

At the rumble of his voice, she glances up. He’s the physical embodiment of summer in his tight white tank top, khaki board shorts, and flip flops. The enormous dark hickey on his neck clues her in to the reason for his tardiness.

“Let me guess. Octavia?” she says ruefully, standing up to accept a bear hug.

He gives her a sheepish grin and doesn't deny the insinuation as he peels off his aviators and takes the seat opposite.

  
  
  


***

  
  


“How was the training session yesterday?” Lincoln asks, tucking in to the hearty plate of eggs in front of him.

A beat passes before Clarke drops her cutlery and puts her head in her hands.

“Fuck! I forgot to get the ball signed.” She huffs out a breath, annoyed at herself. “I swear I did ask her but it completely slipped my mind when I left. Shit, I’m so sorry.”

If he’s at all disappointed it doesn't show. For all his intimidating bulk, Lincoln’s the most placid man on earth.

He shrugs lightly and smiles. “Don’t worry about it. I think I can forgive you for being distracted by Legs. Another time, maybe.”

She rolls her eyes a little at the nickname, coined after that second appointment, when Clarke had wandered into the break room in a slight daze. Lincoln had asked about the diagnosis and Clarke replied, “Legs— _Lexa’s_ got a grade one strain of the biceps femoris.” And he’d just taken one look at her, chagrined and blushing as she was at the verbal slip up, and let out a deep laugh. Of course, the name stuck.

“Hmm, doubtful.” Clarke picks up her fork and spears a piece of pancake. “I won’t be seeing her again.”

Lincoln watches her as she chews, his forehead lining in confusion. “What? Why?”

Clarke gives him a look, swallowing the morsel. “You know why.”

“Okay but, technically, she isn’t your client anymore.”

“Tell that to Nyko when he hauls me into his office for breaching CSP guidelines on professional conduct.” She shakes her head. “It isn’t only that. I can think of at least ten other reasons why it would be a terrible idea.”

“Clarke—”

“Linc, just drop it? Please?” She sighs. Softens immediately, offering a small thin-lipped smile. “I know you’re all,” she waves her fork in his direction, “disgustingly loved up and you want the same for everyone else but I’m fine. Honestly. Which reminds me, does Octavia suspect anything?”

He returns the smile, all gums and perfectly straight white teeth. “Nope. All I’ve told her is to bring her passport and pack for hot weather.”

“Picked up the ring yet?”

“Tomorrow morning. I’m getting it engraved with our initials and the date we met.”

“Ugh, barf.”

He rubs the back of his neck, laughing quietly, and she feels a surge of fondness for the big lunk.

“Have to admit I’m kind of gutted to be missing Wimbledon this year. You’ll let me know all the good gossip when I get back, yeah?”

“Of course. Not that I have a clue who any of the players are.”

“Apart from Legs...”

Clarke takes a sip of coffee, fixing him with a droll stare over the rim. She sets the cup down and chews her lip.

“Truth be told, I’m bricking it a bit.” Off his quizzical look, Clarke lifts one shoulder in a tiny shrug. “I know, it’s weird. I hardly ever get nervous before a big event. Snooty tennis pros are different to what I’m used to, I suppose.”

“Hey, I have full confidence in you. And Nyko must too, because it’s a coveted job. Two weeks on-call for a shedload of money? It’ll fly past. Before you know it you’ll be back to dealing with dickhead footie players and trying to avoid inadvertently grazing their balls.”

Clarke makes a face. “When you put it like that.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


When the bill arrives Clarke is surprised to find a phone number tucked beneath the complimentary mints on the tray. She looks across the room, eyes landing upon Niylah where she stands a few tables away, wiping down the surface, gazing steadily back at Clarke, lips tilted up into a smile.

“Here, I’ll get this,” Lincoln says, reaching for the bill.

She isn’t quick enough to intercept him. As soon as he notices the scrawled digits on the scrap of paper, he chuckles.

“You’ve got game, Griff, I’ll give you that.” He regards her with a raised eyebrow and a teasing smirk. “I mean, damn, I was only ten minutes late. This must be a new record.”

“Oh, stop it.”

She tosses a mint at him, only for him to catch it one-handed, peel off the wrapper, and pop it into his mouth.

He nods towards the phone number. “But, seriously, are you going to call her?”

“Pfft. No,” Clarke scoffs. “She’s a stranger. Could be an axe murderer for all I know.”

Lincoln glances over at Niylah then back to Clarke. “Yeah.” Deadpan. “She really looks it.”

“Appearances can be deceptive. Anyway, I’m perfectly content on my own right now. I have my job and my friends and the freedom to do what I want, when I want.” She waves a dismissive hand. “I hate this societal bullshit that dictates you can’t be fulfilled unless you’re shackled to someone else.” A pause. “No offence.”

“None taken.”

He stands and plucks a few notes from his wallet, more than enough to include a generous tip, and drops the cash on the tray.

“Doesn’t hurt to keep an open mind, though.” He leans down to squeeze her shoulder, to press a quick kiss to the top of her head. Remains close when he says, “That goes for Legs, too.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Despite the appeal of tennis largely eluding her, Clarke still feels a sense of awe as she steps through the doors of the All England Lawn Tennis Club early on Monday morning. Because she can appreciate Wimbledon as a venerable place steeped in history and grandeur, recognise that the hallowed grass courts have played host to a long line of legends, even if she doesn’t give two shits about the sport.

Not that she has much opportunity to admire her surroundings. After completing the necessary security checks and collecting her lanyard from reception, she’s shepherded through the pristine white corridors to a meeting room for an induction alongside the other PTs. While the tournament’s medical staff introduce themselves and talk through protocols, Clarke finds her attention drifting. Taking in the prints that line the walls: euphoric past champions holding aloft the various trophies, shots of dramatic on-court action, players in tennis whites posing with minor royalty and officials in Wimbledon blazers.

The jitters she’s been battling since she rolled out of bed have dissipated a little now. She only managed to grab a few hours of fitful sleep last night, tossed and turned until the sheets were tangled around her legs. Awoke early, and the pale grey light creeping across the room, the incessant chirp of birdsong outside, prevented her from getting any more rest.

If she gets through today without keeling over from exhaustion it’ll be on a wing and a prayer and an intravenous drip of caffeine.

So as soon as the induction is over and the Head Physio announces a twenty minute break before they’re due to be shown around the facilities, Clarke makes a beeline for the coffee and pastries. Before she can get to the pump action airpot to dispense a large cup, a short guy with slicked-back hair, somnolent eyes, and the hint of a sex offender about him steps in front of her.

He smirks and holds out a hand. “Murphy. Groin specialist.”

She stares at his hand until he retracts it. The odious smile doesn’t slip from his face and Clarke can’t think of anything worse than allowing this creep anywhere near someone’s pelvic region with or without direct supervision.

“Clarke Griffin,” she says crisply. “Knee and leg.”

She steps around him to grab a cup, aware of his lingering presence behind her.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you around, Clarke.”

Something about the way he says it makes her skin crawl.

When she glances over her shoulder to catch him leering at her arse, she doesn’t bother to keep the distaste from her expression. “I sincerely hope not.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


The first couple of days pass without much incident, other than Clarke’s strenuous attempts to avoid Murphy whenever possible. Aside from the odd twisted ankle and minor quad strain, there’s much more downtime than she was anticipating, leaving her free to wander the grounds, to disappear amongst the crowds, to soak up the atmosphere and the glorious sunshine.

In fact, it hadn’t really occurred to her how huge Wimbledon actually is. On telly, the venue appears more intimate, but the grounds stretch far and wide. It makes the minor apprehension she’s been harbouring about crossing paths with Lexa here seem silly. What are the chances anyway? Improbably low, unless Lexa’s injury recurs, and, for both their sakes, she hopes it doesn’t.

(When she hears on the evening news bulletin that Lexa comfortably defeated her first round opponent in straight sets Clarke feels only relief. And, nope, she isn’t at all tempted to tune into the ‘Today at Wimbledon’ highlights coverage on BBC2.)

By the close of the second day, she feels considerably more at ease. Which should’ve been a warning that she’s lulled herself into a false sense of security.

Because when she’s at lunch on Wednesday, standing at one of the food stations in the cafeteria, spooning a few extra strawberries into her bowl, and she turns around, the last person she expects to (literally) bump into is Lexa.

The bowl slips from Clarke’s hands and the spilt strawberries scatter everywhere. They both drop into a crouch, scrambling to clean up the mess.

“Sorry! Fuck, sorry, I’m such a clumsy idiot.”

“No, it’s my fault. I was in your way.”

They reach for the same strawberry at the same time and Clarke feels a jolt, a tiny static shock when their fingers brush. She apologises again, an automatic reflex.

Their eyes meet and Clarke’s struck by just how green Lexa’s are, greener and brighter than she remembered. How they _glow_. And, this close, the outlines of contact lenses are visible. Why hadn’t she noticed Lexa wears contacts before? Why is she so shaken by this revelation?

Clarke stares and stares and when she opens her mouth, she finds herself stymied for words.

Fortunately, Lexa appears similarly speechless until a small crease forms between her brows, confusion evident in her tone when she asks, “Are you working here or…?”

Clarke becomes aware of the people in the queue flowing around them and she rises quickly. Lexa stands too, handing the bowl back to Clarke, and once again something sparks between them in the fleeting contact.

“Uh, yes. I’m contracted out for the tournament. My friend, Lincoln—you remember…?” Lexa nods. “Well, he usually works Wimbledon but he’s on a romantic getaway with his girlfriend so,” Clarke gives a little shrug, “I’m filling in.”

“Ah. Right.” Lexa nods again, dropping her gaze.

And Clarke takes the opportunity to let her eyes wander unobserved, because she’s weak and Lexa’s wearing spandex leggings that look nothing short of amazing on her. They do a spectacular job of accentuating the lines of those long, long legs, the strong calves and well-developed thighs. The sight has Clarke snaring her bottom lip between her teeth. Is enough to make heat flare in her cheeks when Lexa looks directly at her again.

“You didn’t mention it.”

If there’s a slight accusation in Lexa’s statement, Clarke doesn’t rise to it. It’s not as if she owes an explanation. There was no reason to share details of her future work engagements. Lexa was a client and this… frisson between them was bound to fade when they weren’t in daily contact.

The truth of the matter is she’d allowed things to go too far when she accepted the invitation to watch Lexa train. It was a mistake, an indulgent blurring of boundaries, and she went anyway, against her better judgement. All it resulted in was awkwardness and mixed signals and Lexa pouting and Clarke can’t deal with any of it.

So she fibs, “It was fairly last minute.” Changes the subject, shifting into polite, professional enquiry. “How is your hamstring? How are you getting on with the exercises?”

“Good. No troubles so far.” Lexa fiddles with the zip of her hoodie. “I won my first game.”

“I saw. Congratulations. And you’re playing Zoe Monroe in the next round?”

“Yeah.” Lexa tips her head slightly to the side. “How did you know? Are you a tennis convert now?” A smile pulls at her mouth. “Or are you keeping tabs on me?”

“Since I’m here for the fortnight it’s important I know the schedule, the order of play.” Seeing Lexa’s broadening grin, Clarke narrows her eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.” A glance down at her feet, an amused shake of the head. “It’s just the way you pronounce schedule. Like, shedyool.” Green eyes flick back up and Clarke forgets to be affronted about Lexa making fun of her accent. “I think it’s cu—”

“Yo, Lexa.”

Anya’s standing a few feet away from them, watching the whole exchange with an indecipherable expression.

“You wanna wrap up the lame rom-com bumbling?” She taps her watch. “We’ve only got an hour and you’ve still gotta pray to your Serena shrine. Plus all the other weird superstitious shit you do.”

Lexa throws an exasperated glare at her assistant coach. When she brings her focus back to Clarke, the tips of her tiny ears are tinged pink. (Seriously, they’re _so_ small—how are they even real?)

“Anya’s prone to exaggeration. I really _don’t_ have a shrine. But I do have to…” She jerks her thumb behind her.

“Of course. Well, good luck against Monroe.”

“Thanks.” Lexa backs away slowly. “You too.” She dips her eyes, absurdly bashful. “With the PT, I mean.”

The parting smile that curves across Lexa’s lips definitely does not make Clarke’s knees go a little weak.

  
  
  


***

  
  


After that Clarke keeps seeing Lexa around.

Everywhere she goes, there’s Lexa.

In the cafeteria with her coaches, quietly absorbing their counsel; sweeping through the corridors in the direction of the women’s locker room, chin held aloft, a racket bag slung over her shoulder; signing autographs outside the Millennium Building entrance with the utmost grace and patience, despite the clamour.

Lexa, who’s perpetually in athleticwear. Hoodies and tracksuit bottoms, the kind that are especially clingy around the bum.

(Clarke has intimate knowledge of just how tight and toned those glutes are, and she can’t bring herself to feel guilty about looking.)

And, dear God, she isn’t ready for the first time she sees Lexa in that white tennis dress with the racerback cut, the skirt barely skimming mid-thigh. She’s never felt so personally attacked by a short hemline, or bare shoulders, or the sharp definition of someone’s collarbones.

If Lexa notices Clarke around too, she gives no indication.

They don’t make eye contact, don’t speak. No acknowledgement of one another at all.

Lexa’s sole focus is on the tournament, as it should be, and Clarke doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardise that. So she pushes down the wriggle of frustration she feels and keeps her distance.

It’s for the best.

And it’s all going relatively fine until she saunters into her assigned treatment room late on Friday afternoon to find Lexa waiting for her, wearing a sheepish little smile.

“I felt a twinge after my match,” Lexa explains. “Thought I should get it checked out.”

After she stops gaping Clarke has to force herself to move. Switch her brain into that clinical gear. Quell the flutter in her stomach at the sight of Lexa reclining on the exam table in that damn tennis dress, the stark white contrasting beautifully against tan skin.

Almost on autopilot she asks all the requisite questions, works methodically through the biomechanical and neurodynamic tests to assess muscle damage and hamstring strength. The whole time she’s extremely conscious of the appropriate placement of her hands, about not lingering longer than she should. Except, sometimes she can’t help it. She forgets herself for a second or two, appreciating the play of muscles and tendons beneath the smooth expanse of skin.

She watches Lexa’s face. Studies the subtle microexpressions while she stretches Lexa out. Straight leg raises to determine if the hamstring has been shortened, to check for loss of flexibility. Mouth dry when she asks Lexa if there’s any pain or if the muscle feels tight.

Paying such close attention because often clients don’t verbalise their discomfort, preferring to hide behind a mask of bravado or stoicism.

At least that’s what she tells herself.

It’s not that Lexa has the most exquisite bone structure Clarke has ever seen outside the pages of a fashion magazine. Those cheekbones. That jawline. Those pouty lips.

(Lips that Clarke hasn’t spent any amount of time daydreaming about kissing. But, if she had, she imagines they’d be soft and lush and ever so slightly sweet. And maybe Lexa would moan if Clarke sucked on the full lower lip; if she scraped her teeth over—)

“Clarke?”

She blinks, shaken out of the apparent daze she’d fallen into.

“We’ve done the third set of reps.”

Lexa’s voice sounds a little deeper than usual and her eyes are dark, lidded, watching Clarke just as intently. The barest hint of a smirk tips up one corner of Lexa’s mouth, like she _knows_.

A flush creeps up Clarke’s neck as she eases Lexa’s leg down. “Did you feel any discomfort at all?”

Lexa shakes her head, no.

“Good.” Clarke takes a breath, an attempt to rally herself for what’s coming next. “Ready for the floor work?”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Somehow, miraculously, Clarke makes it through the bridging activities and following strength tests without making a complete tit of herself.

Frankly, she deserves an award for enduring those single leg exercises. She would defy anyone to watch Lexa slowly thrusting up off the mat, thighs tensed and straining, and not have their mind descend into the gutter. Because that pelvic control is certainly… impressive.

“I want you to take tomorrow off,” Clarke says, banishing the memory.

When she sees Lexa open her mouth to object, Clarke silences her with a sharp look.

“ _Complete_ rest will allow for muscle regeneration to occur and for you to monitor any symptoms that might return.” She continues tapping out a few notes on the iPad. “If you aren’t experiencing any pain you can resume light training on Sunday. Rehab exercises, ice afterwards.”

Lexa nods her acquiescence.

“Your next match is on Monday?”

“Yeah, against Maya Vie.”

“Okay. I’m going to book you in first thing at 8am to check on your progress.”

Flattening her palms on the exam table behind her, Lexa leans back. “I could get used to starting my day like that.”

The suggestive remark causes Clarke to glance over once more, and the cocky tilt of Lexa’s lips, the way her heavy gaze rakes over Clarke’s body gives her pause. Seconds elapse before Clarke realises she’s staring too, eyes following the long line of Lexa’s throat to the hollow, to the silver chain that rests against her collarbones, dropping lower to the slope of her chest. Noting, (not for the first time today) how the tennis dress stretches taut across Lexa’s torso, tight enough that the slightest hint of nipple is discernible.

Clarke draws in a shallow breath.

It takes considerable effort to refocus on the tablet in her hands, to recover her train of thought.

“You know the drill. For tonight and tomorrow: RICE. On Sunday I recommend you wear a compression wrap during exercise as a precaution. Your hamstring will benefit from the additional support.”

“Alright, thanks.”

“Mhm.”

While Lexa slips off the exam table Clarke pretends to be absorbed in the iPad. With the session concluded she expects Lexa to take her leave, but she doesn't.

“Was there something else?” Clarke asks evenly, not looking up.

There’s a short lull before Lexa replies, “No. Just... have a good weekend, Clarke.”

“And you.”

It’s only by the thinnest of margins that Clarke stops herself from watching Lexa go, keeping her eyes resolutely trained on the screen and not on Lexa’s retreating backside.

  
  
  


***  
  


It feels like a big cosmic joke, the universe playing tricks on her, or possibly karmic retribution for some past misdeed in another life.

That can be the only explanation for how she manages to bump into Lexa out running on the street. On Sunday morning. In a city of close to nine million people. Just when things were starting to settle.

She had nearly two days Lexa-free to get her head sorted out, to rationalise and identify that it’s a minor crush that will run its course once the tournament is over and Lexa is gone. Until then, Clarke just has to control herself. Maintain a clinical detachment. Keep their interactions professional and above reproach.

But it’s proving difficult when Lexa seems to be invading every part of her life. When Lexa’s standing in front of her now, breathing hard and wearing the tiniest running shorts and sports bra combo Clarke has ever seen. When Clarke’s embarrassed about being caught in slouchy jeans and an old threadbare t-shirt with a hole below one armpit, the fact her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she didn’t think to put any makeup on before she left the flat.

She wasn’t expecting this. Wasn’t expecting _Lexa_ , who’s practically glowing like a goddess, tan and lean and lithe, skin dewy with perspiration.

“Clarke. Hello,” Lexa smiles, pulling out her earbuds and wrapping the wires around her open palm. The faint, tinny thud of music can be heard, presumably some workout mix. “What a coincidence. Do you live around here?”

Clarke chooses to sidestep the question. Instead, she eyes Lexa’s bare thigh, notable for its lack of any support wrapping.

“You shouldn’t be out running on that yet. Unless it’s your intention to set back your recovery?”

“It’s my routine, Clarke. I can’t stop my routine.”

Said so matter-of-factly. As if some daft superstition is reason enough for Lexa to put herself at risk of aggravating her hamstring.

“Well, as your PT, I strongly advise against it,” Clarke says, sternly. “Look, you can reject my advice if you want. That’s your prerogative. But I have a duty of care to help you prevent further injury.”

She holds Lexa’s stubborn stare, and it takes all of her willpower not to let her eyes stray to the hinge of Lexa’s clenched jaw. Such an innocuous part of someone’s body should not be so attractive.

After a long moment, Lexa looks away. She dips her head, conceding with a shallow nod. “I know. It’s just—running is an essential part of my mental preparations. It gets me out of my head for a while, helps me de-stress.”

“There must be other things you can do for stress relief, surely?”

A second too late, Clarke realises how that question could be misconstrued. If Lexa’s reaction is anything to go by, she must too; widened eyes snap back to Clarke’s, lips parting on a twitch.

Clarke flushes hard.

“I didn’t mean… I wasn’t implying—”  She stops before she puts her foot in it even more. Brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Can we just pretend this conversation never happened?”

For her part, Lexa is clearly fighting a smile. “I will, on one condition.”

Clarke gives a wary look but waits for Lexa to elaborate.

“Have a smoothie with me? There’s a great place a couple of blocks from here that does these delicious kale and blueberry ones.”

Delicious kale.

Never in her life has Clarke been more dubious about two words being used adjacently in a sentence. Because kale is, by any objective measure, awful.

Aversion to leaf cabbage aside, she’s also meant to be enforcing those PT/client boundaries.

So her immediate instinct is to decline.

But Lexa looks so keen and expectant, bouncing on her heels, and what harm could it do?

Protein—protein is good, right?

  
  
  


***

  
  


“How can you possibly drink this stuff?” Clarke nearly gags, nose wrinkling as she wipes her mouth and pushes the tall glass away. “Do you enjoy punishing yourself?”

Lexa’s laugh is the most melodious sound. It makes Clarke feel marginally better about ingesting that vile concoction, has warmth blooming in her chest.

“It’s an acquired taste, I guess.”

Lexa takes a long sip and Clarke tries not to stare at the purse of those lips around the straw, to let her gaze dip lower to watch the slow bob of Lexa’s throat as she swallows.

Instead, she looks out the window. Watches a young couple walk past, a small child between them swinging their arms and laughing. She smiles at the sight. When she turns her attention back to Lexa, there’s an intensity in those green eyes as they study her. It leaves Clarke slightly self-conscious, shifting on her seat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and wishing she’d at least run a mascara wand over her lashes or applied some lip gloss.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” Lexa says. She angles her body more towards Clarke, props her cheek on her knuckles, elbow resting on the counter. “Is this your neighbourhood?”

Clarke only offers a vague, “I have a flat not too far away.”

“Any roommates?”

“If a cat could be counted as such.”

Lexa sits up a little straighter. “Oh, I love cats.” Then, perhaps realising how overly enthusiastic she sounded, she lets out a quiet self-deprecating chuckle. “Such a lesbian stereotype, I know.”

“Well, I doubt you’d love Bellamy. He isn’t fond of strangers. Any time I bring someone home he gets very territorial. He hisses. Gets his hackles up.” Clarke sighs. “I think that big grumpy furball wants me to be forever alone so he can have me all to himself.”

Lexa leans almost imperceptibly closer, gazes at Clarke from under lowered lashes.

“Can’t say I blame him.”

Their knees are almost touching and Clarke knows she should move away, put a stop to this before it veers any further into inappropriate territory.

She takes a breath. “Lexa—”

“E-excuse me.”

Both look over to see a young teenage girl hovering from foot to foot. She’s so nervous she’s shaking. A full body tremble. Clutching a pen and a paper napkin in a death grip as she says directly to Lexa, “Are you Lexa Woods?”

“I am.”

The girl chews her lip then blurts out, “Would you sign this for me, please?”

“Of course,” Lexa says, smiling.

And Clarke watches the interaction unfold with fascinated interest. How Lexa makes sure to hold full eye contact when she asks for the girl’s name, how attentive Lexa is as they chat for a couple of minutes about the tournament and Lexa’s impressions of London.

(Lexa’s eyes flick over to Clarke briefly when she mentions, “I’m enjoying getting to know the locals.”)

She even poses for a Snapchat selfie, holding two fingers up in a victory sign and sticking her tongue out. It’s so silly. Endearing. And Clarke has to hide a smile behind her hand.

By the time the teenager—Tris—departs with a little wave, she’s grinning from ear to ear and brimming with new confidence.

“Do you often get recognised out and about?” Clarke asks, toying with the straw of her abandoned smoothie.

“Sometimes, but it’s fine.” Lexa shrugs. “I mean, I was totally starstruck when I met Serena Williams as a kid. If I’m able to inspire someone the way she inspired me, that’s pretty gratifying, you know?”

Clarke hums. When they catch each other’s eye, there’s a comfortable ease to it. Like they’re just two people enjoying one another’s company on a beautifully sunny Sunday morning.

Clarke is a bit reluctant for it to end.

But end, it must.

Lexa glances at her watch and curses softly. “Sorry, Clarke, I really need to go. I’ve got an interview with a reporter at some stuffy hotel in central London.” She grimaces. “Fans I’m happy to talk to, the press not so much.”

“No problem. I have a few errands to run anyway.”

They hop off their stools, and in doing so Clarke’s heel gets caught on the footrest, causing her to stumble forward half a step. She puts out a hand. Grabs the first solid thing within reach, which just so happens to be Lexa’s forearm. Lexa’s reflexes are faster, catching Clarke by the waist and holding her steady.

“Woah, you okay there?”

“Yes. I’m...” Clarke trails off, distracted by their sudden proximity, the realisation that there’s hardly any space between them. Yet she doesn’t release her grip on Lexa, fingertips tingling as they press into the sun-bleached downy hairs that cover warm skin.

“Sorry,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

While they stand there, unmoving, she becomes very aware of several things: the couple of inches height advantage Lexa has over her; Lexa’s soft breath fanning across her face; the flex of Lexa’s fingers at her waist; the weight and heat of Lexa’s palms, burning hot through the thin fabric of the t-shirt; the darkened, lidded eyes that drop to her mouth.

And for a heart-stopping second, she’s convinced Lexa is going to dip in to kiss her. She feels the tug between them, like an invisible thread being pulled taut. Sees Lexa sway slightly closer, her lips parting. Little more than a slice of air between them.

Clarke holds her breath and waits.

Doesn’t know whether to sigh in relief or howl with disappointment when Lexa lets go and retreats a small step backwards.

Because Clarke would’ve allowed it, would’ve surrendered for just a minute.

The thought makes her cheeks flame red.

What the fuck is she doing? She shouldn’t be encouraging this.

“You should come watch me play tomorrow, if you have time,” Lexa says, a low murmur. It wraps around Clarke, draws her in. “To see my improvement, how I move. Tell me if I’m doing anything that might hurt me.”

Every fibre of Clarke’s being is screaming at her to pipe up with any one of the myriad completely valid excuses for saying no.

So she can’t explain what possesses her to say, “If you think it’ll help with your treatment.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


While the sun beats down and the crowd quiets for Vie’s opening serve, Clarke is entranced by Lexa’s on-court tics. How she spins and grips the racket, flexing her hands, swaying slightly from side to side before she plants her feet, a determined set to her jaw as she stares her opponent down, game face on.

The ball hisses through the air at blistering speed, much faster than it appears on TV, scarcely more than a lime green blur, and Clarke doesn’t know how it’s humanly possible to react so quickly but Lexa does. Springing into action in a kinetic burst, driving the return shot down the line with pace and power and a resounding grunt, just beyond Vie’s reach.

The spectators erupt but Lexa’s severe expression doesn’t slip for a second. Not even when she takes the first game 15-40.

As she trots back to the baseline, tucking the necklace inside her dress, she looks like she’s plotting to murder everyone.

(Why is that _so_ incredibly hot?)

Then it’s her turn to serve.

From her position in the stands, Clarke can see the little furrow of Lexa’s brow when she tests which ball she wants to use. How she bounces the chosen one three times and pockets a spare. Her arms are graceful as she tosses the ball before her body bends and shifts into something hard and powerful in a snap.

It’s an ace. 119 mph, according to the board.

A rush of breath leaves Clarke’s mouth, astonished.

In the seat next to her, Anya snorts. “Trust me, she’s only getting warmed up. On a good day, Lexa regularly hits around 125.”

As the match progresses Clarke gives up the pretence that she’s observing Lexa so closely because there might be some adjustments she could suggest to mitigate injury. The reality is that she’s spellbound by the fluidity with which Lexa moves. The leonine grace. How she whips those groundstrokes cross-court with a devastating combination of precision, force, and speed.

It’s electrifying.

And Clarke finds herself getting invested in the play. Becoming just as caught up in the thrills as the rest of the crowd, willing Lexa on to victory. Growing anxious when Lexa has her serve broken halfway through the first set and she drops the subsequent game too.

She hears Titus on Anya’s other side grumbling and muttering under his breath.

“Calm your tits, both of you,” Anya says in a flat monotone. “Christ, you lot are more bloody nervy than she is.”

But Lexa takes the set, barrelling back after that small upset, smacking each shot with controlled fury, features carved into a snarl, wielding the racket like an extension of herself.

She grunts and growls every time she hits the ball. Practically _roars_ when she wins a particularly difficult point after a punishing rally.

(Clarke does her best to tune out the noises. Noises that aren’t so far removed from the ones Lexa made on her table, just amplified by a factor of ten. Noises that have her unconsciously uncrossing and recrossing her legs.)

During the rest, Lexa stares forward while she wipes down her arms and chest with a towel, takes a couple of bites of banana, chugs from a bottle of water. In her head she’s probably reciting a silent affirmation, something motivational and/or dramatic.

Before the umpire calls time her eyes shift to the stands, to where Clarke is sitting with Anya and Titus. In that second of eye contact, Lexa visibly relaxes. As if the tension she’s been carrying across her shoulders ever since she stepped out on court is lifted.

Something in Clarke settles, too.

From the beginning of the second set, Lexa dominates the court. Dictates the game entirely, disrupting the rhythm of Vie’s shots, running her ragged from side to side, misdirecting and manipulating her into forced errors.

It takes less than 25 minutes.

6-2, 6.0.

Clarke is just in awe of this display of prowess and athleticism.

(And maybe a little turned on, too.)

  
  
  


***

  
  


“How’d it look, Doc?”

Clarke pivots to see Lexa leaning against the doorjamb.

She purses her lips. “I’m not a doctor.”

Lexa’s eyes glow with pride. There’s a tiny smirk at the corner of her mouth. She’s openly preening and Clarke knows why. In no small part because in the seconds after the umpire announced Lexa as the winner, her gaze found Clarke in the crowd again, on her feet, joining in with the thunderous applause.

She was swept up in the moment, that’s all.

So she shuts it down, pricks that ego. “I saw you favouring your other leg towards the end so you might want to lose the attitude.”

“It’s fine.”

Clarke points to the table. “All the same, I want to check you out.”

She only belatedly realises her choice of words could be interpreted another way. Pretends not to notice the widening smile Lexa fails to corral as she hoists herself up.

“You were doing plenty of that during the match, from what I could tell.”

Clarke doesn’t dignify that with a response, purposefully avoiding Lexa’s eyes. Too attuned to the fact Lexa’s still gleaming with sweat, not thorough enough when she towelled off earlier. She missed a bit under her jaw, the dip of her throat, the shadowed valley where the hint of cleavage shows above the scooped neck of her tennis dress.

Clarke has to take a moment to psyche herself up, the thought of putting her hands on Lexa suddenly a daunting prospect.

 _Pull yourself together_.

It’s only stretches.

Something she’s done a million times before for hundreds of other people. She’s an allied healthcare professional; Lexa is her _client_. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.

Drawing in a fortifying breath, she reaches for Lexa’s leg, ignoring the current that seems to pass between them as soon as her fingers make contact with smooth warm skin. She urges Lexa to lift her leg, to prop her ankle against Clarke’s shoulder.

“How does this feel?” Clarke asks as she rubs along the lateral hamstring, starting from the semimembranosus muscle above Lexa’s knee and working up, finally edging under the hem of the tennis dress.

She hears a quiet hitch of breath then, “Good.”

She glances up to check in and, God, the way Lexa’s staring at her now really isn’t helping Clarke maintain her composure.

Because there’s Lexa: laid back on the table, propped up on her elbows, head inclined a little to one side. Still glowing from the win, flushed with success. The ends of her hair beginning to curl, flyaway strands escaping the ponytail and sticking to her temples, her neck. Eyes heavy and dark.

It’s just impossible.

Clarke can’t deal with it.

The proximity; the smell of clean sweat and sunblock and whatever deodorant Lexa wears clouding Clarke’s senses; the soft groan Lexa lets out when Clarke’s thumbs give an exploratory probe of the trigger point below her glutes, presumably experiencing some tightness. How Lexa’s eyebrows dip, teeth tugging on her bottom lip.

Another small noise leaks out and Clarke’s cheeks grow hotter.

It’s too much.

She has to stop this before she does something reckless and completely unprofessional.

She coaxes Lexa’s leg down, ignoring the questioning look she receives.

“Turn over,” Clarke says, and there’s a deeper, huskier pitch to her voice that she hopes Lexa doesn’t detect. “We’ll continue on your front.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


If she thought it would be easier to get through this with Lexa face down, Clarke was stupidly mistaken.

With Lexa’s head pillowed on her folded arms, every sculpted muscle of her shoulders stands out in relief thanks to the racerback dress. Clarke itches to touch, to run her fingers over the deltoids and upper back, to see and feel the flex of all that subtle strength beneath her hands.

She has to avert her gaze.

Not that there’s any other safe place to rest her eyes. Not when Lexa’s wearing that one-piece, and, beneath it, tight shorts that hug the curve of her bottom.

No, it’s really not any easier when every little muffled sound Lexa makes goes straight between Clarke’s thighs, settling low and heavy and molten.

Or when she finds herself wondering if Lexa's stamina is just as good off the court. If her ears go as red as they are right now...

And, no.

 _No_.

She cannot be thinking like this. Not at work, with Lexa on her table in a vulnerable position. It’s a breach of trust, a contravention of ethical behaviour, and Clarke’s better than this. She is.

So she grits her teeth and shoves aside these rogue thoughts and tells herself to focus. Because Lexa deserves nothing less than the best care Clarke can provide, not to be objectified and leched over, regardless of how receptive she is.

  
  
  


***

  
  


“You may not need another session tomorrow but I’ll block off the eight am slot again, just in case.”

Clarke’s back is turned while she adds to her notes. She feels Lexa’s eyes on her, a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. But she doesn’t turn around, no matter how much she feels the urge.

She hears Lexa slide off the table, the squeak of soles upon the linoleum floor tiles. The warm presence at her back, the shifting of the air around her, makes Clarke stiffen slightly. 

“Could I see you before then? Dinner, maybe?” 

Clarke sighs and puts down the iPad. “Lexa, we’ve talked about this.” 

When she finally turns around Lexa is much closer than expected. Close enough that Clarke has to put a hand behind her, gripping the edge of the standing desk for support. 

“To discuss the treatment plan, I mean,” Lexa says, but there’s a gleam in her eyes that tells Clarke it isn’t the sole motivation. “And to thank you for your help so far.” 

Clarke shakes her head, trying to dispel the fogginess at having Lexa standing so near. “I’m just doing my job.”

She brushes past Lexa to put some distance between them, so she can breathe a little easier.

“You can thank me by following my advice and resting up, alright?” She levels Lexa with a stare, one she hopes will brook no argument.

Lexa tips her head, seemingly unfazed. The ghost of a smile lingers, something shining bright and soft in her eyes. A kind of fond disbelief. As if she doesn’t buy it, like she’s humouring Clarke’s protestations.

“Tomorrow, then,” Lexa says.

She pauses at the doorway, glances over her shoulder. Just in time to see Clarke’s eyes snap up from the general vicinity of her rear. The smug smirk returns, more pronounced than before. 

Clarke curses once Lexa’s gone.

  
  
  


***

  
  


At home that night Clarke is tense and restless.

She starts and soon abandons an episode of House of Cards, unable to concentrate on the machinations of the Underwoods. Next is the habitual evening sweep of her social media feeds, liking the occasional post—including the change in Lincoln’s relationship status on Facebook from ‘in a relationship’ to ‘engaged’—and quickly scrolling past the dull minutiae of people’s everyday lives.

She steadfastly refuses to give in to the temptation to check Lexa’s Instagram and Twitter.

Resistance that lasts all of five minutes.

All she finds is a magnanimous appraisal of the match: “Great performance by @mayavieofficial today. Looking forward to the quarterfinals! #wimbledon.” A couple of retweets from fans without added commentary. And Clarke doesn’t know why she’s vaguely disappointed.

It isn’t long before the vibration of her phone alerts her to a new image from Lincoln on WhatsApp. He must’ve seen her reaction to his status update.

She expects it’ll be a photo of a beaming Octavia proudly showing off the engagement ring or some saccharine post-proposal snap of the happy couple together.

Instead it’s close-up of Clarke herself, sitting in the stands this afternoon and biting her lip. The slightly grainy, blurry quality makes it obvious it was photographed from a TV screen. The caption reads: “Thirst.”

_Linc: Looks like you’re getting into tennis after all. Or maybe it’s just Legs you want to get into?_

As evidence goes, it _is_ pretty damning.

 _I was there in a strictly observational capacity_ , she replies.

Then, _shouldn’t you be entertaining your future wife instead of harassing me?_

 _Linc: She’s resting_ ;)

 _Ugh, TMI_. _But_ _enjoy the rest of your holiday_.

 _Linc: Enjoy Legs_ …

She only responds with an eye roll emoji.

Lincoln sends back a purple devil.

Tossing her phone down on the couch, she heaves a sigh and drags her hands down her cheeks.

From his curled up position on the cushion beside her, Bellamy makes a near silent chattering noise, fixing her with a look that can only be described as judgemental.

“I know, Bell,” she mutters, reaching out to scratch between his ears. “I know.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Standing under the lukewarm spray, Clarke truly doesn’t intend for her hands to wander. She’d only jumped in for a quick shower to wash off the musk of dried sweat and the remnants of deodorant from another scorching hot day before slipping between clean bedsheets.

But as she lathers herself up, she spends a little _too_ long running her hands over her boobs, nipples perking under the stimulation. The brush of her thumbs over the stiff peaks sends a tiny jolt through her, and she can’t contain the ragged sigh that leaves her lips.

Her touch grows bolder. Palming more fully at her tits, squeezing the heavy flesh, circling the hard points of her nipples with her fingertips, until there’s a low down ache that’s impossible to ignore.

At first she tries to keep her mind blank, to focus purely on her body’s physiological responses while she slides her hand between her legs.

She’s wet but not enough.

To help move things along she works at her clit. Dips lower again to find herself only marginally slicker.

She blows out a frustrated breath, squeezes her eyes shut.

 _You’re trying too hard_ , she tells herself, _just relax and let your thoughts go and_ —

Unbidden, an image of Lexa pops into her head. All gleaming skin, sleek muscles, and that brooding thousand-yard stare. Prowling across the court between shots, long fingers picking at the strings of her racket.

Those legs in a tennis skirt. 

That backside in a tennis skirt.

 _Fuck_.

A shiver goes through Clarke that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

She places her free hand flat against the tiles, widens her stance. Wastes no time in pushing two fingers inside, sliding in deep, insufficient lubrication being the least of her problems now.

The picture in her mind shifts to Lexa sitting courtside. Dabbing at those glistening collarbones with a towel in the rest between sets. The elegant line of her neck as she drinks from a water bottle. The _focus_ in her expression, completely composed despite the weight of expectation on her shoulders.

While her hand pumps, picking up pace, Clarke thinks about Lexa’s commanding presence. How Lexa moves; fast and lithe. The graceful, lean lines of her body that belie her true strength. The scowling and the grunting and those ears, tipped pink from exertion.

She rocks her hips and recalls the way Lexa had looked at her during their post-match session, the soft hunger in her eyes, cheeks flushed and lips parted and—

It doesn’t take much longer. Only a few more desperate strokes, a fast, hard grind, before Lexa’s name is tripping from her mouth, the sound drowned out by the water drumming off the tiles and the shower curtain.

She steadies herself, one arm still braced against the wall, while her knees tremble and her abdominals flutter, slowing her movements to shallow thrusts before withdrawing.

She lets out a shuddery breath, rests her forehead on the cool tiles and tries to calm the pounding in her chest.

The moment of sated bliss doesn’t last.

Not when the ramifications of what she just did hit her with full force.

Because how the _fuck_ is she going to be able to face Lexa in the morning?

  
  
  


***

  
  


While Clarke does an inventory of the cabinets, arranging and rearranging rolls of KT tape, hot and cold packs, muscle sprays and gels, bottles of lotion and self-adhesive compression bandages, she makes a note of the items that need to be replenished.

As the tournament has progressed her days have become busier, more players passing through her door than during the first few rounds, the rigours of high-level competition taking their toll, small niggles flaring into more serious complaints.

Privately, she prefers it that way. If her mind is occupied then she won’t have time to dwell on Lexa.

Lexa, who’s going to arrive any minute now, none the wiser that Clarke basically used her as a masturbatory aid last night. It’s almost laughable, how she’s managed to take an already morally suspect situation and make it exponentially worse.

Once she realises she’s counted the same box of knee supports three times, she sighs and mutters under her breath, “For goodness sake, Griffin.”

She closes the cabinet with a slam. As she straightens up from a crouch, in her peripheral vision she catches sight of a familiar figure loitering outside the open door. She isn’t sure how long Lexa has been standing there but she cringes internally at the very real possibility that Lexa overheard her talking to herself.

She half-expects Lexa to smirk or make a cheeky comment but Lexa just raps her knuckles on the doorframe and says, “Hi. Are you ready for me?”

It’s so business-like and subdued it throws Clarke off. Enough to temporarily dispel her unease about being confronted with the object of her torrid sexual fantasies.

“Come in. Take a seat.” She points towards the exam table. “Everything alright?”

Lexa bobs her head. “Yes.”

“No discomfort after your run?”

“No.”

“What about after your exercises?”

“No.”

These monosyllabic, almost robotic answers are starting to worry Clarke. She frowns, studying Lexa’s tight expression as she perches on the edge of the table. The stiff posture, the hunch of her shoulders betray the tension held in her body. It makes Clarke wish for a return to the coy, verging on cocky, flirtation that’s become the hallmark of their sessions.

“Any particular reason why you’re in a sulk?”

Lexa pins her with a look before her eyes slide away. She loosens a small sigh. “Titus is being a royal pain in my ass. But what’s new?”

“Hmm. I can’t say he looked too pleased when I arrived at the players’ enclosure with Anya yesterday.”

Lexa’s gaze returns, sharp. She bristles slightly, annoyance flooding her expression now. “Did he say something to you?”

“No. Quite literally. We didn’t exchange a single word.” Clarke’s eyebrows pull together. “Why? What’s this about?”

When Lexa fails to elaborate, maintaining a pursed-lipped silence, stare rooted firmly on her lap, Clarke doesn’t consciously think about reaching out, brushing her fingers over Lexa’s knuckles. It just happens, as though her hand moves of its own volition.

Their eyes lock, holding each other's gaze for a few weighted seconds, and it sends a warm rush through Clarke, a tingle travelling up her arm from the point of skin on skin contact.

She clears her throat, pulls her hand away.

“Lexa, you know as well as I do that stress can be a contributing factor to recurring injury. If you’re feeling tense going out on court, and—”

“He thinks I’m getting too close to you, Clarke.”

They share another silent look and Lexa’s green eyes seem to be conveying something significant.

Clarke sucks in a quiet breath, unsure what to say. So she evades, goes over to the cabinet to fetch a heat pack.

“Victory stands on the back of sacrifice. That’s what Titus keeps telling me. I only have a short window of time as a pro so I have to maximise every opportunity.” Lexa’s mouth barely ticks up. “It means I don’t have much of a life outside of training and competing. I sleep, breathe, eat tennis.”

“Maybe life should be about more than just tennis,” Clarke says, with a sardonic lift of her brows.

Apparently her words aren’t taken in the lightly teasing way they were intended but rather more seriously. Because Lexa’s eyes are solemn as they flit over Clarke’s face. They settle on her mouth for the span of a few seconds.

When Lexa’s eyes meet Clarke’s again, they’re darker; determined.

“Maybe it should.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Before she goes, Lexa produces two tennis balls from her sports bag.

“Signed, as promised.” There’s something cryptic about her smile when she adds, “Plus an extra one for you.”

It isn’t until much later, when Clarke’s on her morning break and she carries the balls through to the staff room to put with the rest of her belongings, that she properly examines them.

One is addressed to Lincoln: _Thx for being on vacation. LW_.

Clarke snorts and shakes her head. But the message on the other ball nearly makes her drop it.

She grabs her phone from her pocket, takes a snap, and sends the photo to Lexa.

The writing is clearly visible; bold, black Sharpie contrasting against the lime green fuzz of the ball’s surface: _Smoothie tomorrow?_

Clarke taps out an accompanying text.

_Sorry to break it to you but Lincoln has a fiancée and he’s out of the country._

She pockets the phone. Within moments she feels the vibration of a new message against her hip—two in quick succession—but she pours herself a cup of coffee and sits down before she looks.

L: _Shame_

L: _Guess I could get one with you instead_

Clarke can’t prevent the unbidden smile that comes to her lips.

 _You’re_ _a nuisance_.

She watches the ellipses oscillating on the screen. Takes a sip of coffee while she waits for Lexa’s reply, a warmth suffusing her chest that has nothing to do with the hot liquid.

L: _I prefer ‘tenacious’_

 _Hmmmm_.

L: _Is that a yes?_

Clarke hesitates, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. Torn between outright dismissal and just giving in to this feeling that swells behind her ribs every time she sees or hears from Lexa. Instead she chooses to be neutral.

 _Good luck this afternoon_.

The unambiguous finality of her response doesn’t exactly lend itself to further conversation. So she’s surprised when another text comes through a few minutes later.

L: _Anya will save you a spot if you want to watch_

The dots pop up to show Lexa is typing something else. She stops and starts a few times and Clarke wriggles in her chair, waiting.

L: _I liked seeing you in the crowd_

Chin propped on her hand, she stares at the words for far longer than she should. She feels a pang, another little burst of warmth, heart knocking against her ribs as her eyes trace over the letters.

It’s only when Murphy saunters into the staff room that she shakes herself out of it, beating a hasty retreat.

  
  
  


***

  
  


Lexa’s been engaged in a dramatic back and forth for the past hour. The tiebreaker is at 4-3. The crowd are enthralled, on the edge of their seats. The umpire has to keep telling them to quiet down. Someone shouts out “we love you, Lexa” and scattered laughter goes around the stands, but Lexa seems to tune it out, doesn’t even crack a slight smile. She’s completely focused on winning the next point, the only flicker in her concentration being the way she swipes at a droplet of perspiration sliding down her nose with the sweatband on her wrist.

In the stands, sandwiched between a taciturn Anya and an even more taciturn Titus, Clarke watches the match behind the cover of sunglasses. Beside her, Anya hasn’t uttered a single sarcastic one-liner since Lexa’s opponent, Echo Ledas, clawed back the second set, and the stony silence is unsettling.

Clarke hasn’t spoken either. Hasn’t been able to breathe properly all afternoon. It looked like Lexa twinged something while making a daring lunge towards the net for a drop shot during the fourth game of the third, and Clarke keeps waiting for her to falter.

Lexa only grits her teeth and digs in harder, throwing her weight behind every stroke. Her forehand is a fluid whip, the backhand a hard and heavy cross-court screamer, each winner blasting into the backstop like a gunshot.

Still Ledas matches her point for point. Moving and striking, pivoting and charging. She’s tall and _built_ , a physically imposing presence. But Lexa is faster, more agile, and able to wrongfoot her opponent at critical moments.

And Clarke hadn’t truly appreciated just how honed tennis players’ reflexes are. They have split seconds to react, moving with near precognitive, unconscious thought in order to hit a relatively tiny projectile hurtling towards them at incredible velocity. It’s beyond impressive.

Lexa is… Clarke doesn’t even have words.

This final game of the final set is honestly the most stressful, most exhilarating thing Clarke has witnessed. Her stomach is in knots the entire time. She eventually takes off her sunglasses to get a better look, unimpeded, tucking one folded arm into the neck of her Wimbledon-issue polo shirt.

They keep swapping the lead on the tiebreak until it’s match point for Lexa, her serve. The crowd is boisterous and the umpire hushes them sternly once more. It takes a minute for the noise to die down. You could almost hear a pin drop except for the _pat pat pat_ of Lexa bouncing the ball off the sun-scorched, balding patch of grass behind the baseline.

Clarke’s heart is lodged in her throat, her palms sweating as she clutches the hard plastic edge of the seat beneath her knees.

“C’mon, Lexa,” Anya whispers. “Finish her.”

Lexa pauses, staring at Ledas. Assessing and measuring, a killer glint in her eye. She pulls in a breath and tosses the ball high. Smacks it hard into the left-hand corner and her opponent doesn’t even have time to dive for it.

127mph.

“Game, set, and match, Miss Woods.”

There’s a second of stunned silence before the spectators go wild. Lexa herself doesn’t even seem to process what’s happened until the roar of the crowd reaches her ears. She raises a clenched fist in celebration, soaking up the adulation, pure joy etched across her features. Scoops out the necklace from her dress and kisses the pendant that dangles from the end of it, but it’s too small to make out what it is from this distance.

The relief and elation that charges through Clarke is unlike anything she’s ever felt before. She only just manages to stop herself from seizing Anya in a hug. 

Lexa goes over to the net to shake her opponent’s hand, approaches the umpire’s chair to exchange a handshake with him too. She pulls off her sweatbands and lobs them into the crowd, much to their delight. When her gaze finally lands on Clarke (once again on her feet and she doesn’t fucking care), Lexa stops and stares.

It only lasts a moment but something blistering passes between them during that brief eye contact.

“You should see her, after.”

With all the commotion going on, Clarke doesn’t immediately register the words. She glances over to find a half smile on Anya’s face, dark eyes full of mirth.

“Y’know, to have a squiz at that hammy.”

“If I can fit her in.”

“That’s what she said.”

Clarke’s mouth drops slightly then she snaps it shut. “I meant—” She stops herself and purses her lips, knowing this is an exercise in futility when Anya’s smirk widens. “Never mind.”

Beside them, Titus scowls.

  
  
  


***

  
  


Now the adrenaline rush of watching the match has worn off, Clarke’s left with butterflies. A flurry that only intensifies when Lexa walks into the treatment room, skin flushed, a sheen of sweat on her collarbones and the slope of her chest, an unrestrained smile pressing into her glowing cheeks.

“How are you feeling?” Clarke asks, ignoring the way her heart rate kicks up a notch in Lexa’s presence. She scrutinises Lexa’s movement as she takes her usual perch on the table without prompting. “You seemed to lock up at one point in the final set.”

“I overextended my stride, that’s all. It was an intense match.”

“Hm.”

Lexa’s voice dips into a low, teasing lilt. “I saw you getting into it.”

The attitude, Lexa’s little smirk, is far more appealing than it should be, but there’s a warm sincerity that threads through her words when she adds, “I’m glad you came.”

Clarke could pretend otherwise but the truth is watching Lexa in her element is astounding, heart-stopping, and she didn’t want to miss it.

So she swallows down the instinct to be contrary. Nods, “Me too.”

The admission hangs in the air while they watch each other from opposite sides of the room. And, with it, something loosens in Clarke’s chest. Lexa’s eyes hold hers, steady and magnetic, and she isn’t even aware she’s in motion until she finds herself in front of Lexa, standing less than a foot away.

Without a word, Lexa reaches out and snags the lanyard hanging around Clarke’s neck. Leverage enough to tug Clarke that final step closer, hips bumping up against Lexa’s knees. Her breath hitches at the contact.

“Lexa…” she says, more a rough, quiet exhalation than a fully formed word.

“Clarke.”

God, the way Lexa says her name. The click of the hard consonants. It sends a tingle up and down her spine, has Clarke pressing closer, heavy eyes fastening to the secret smile that curves across Lexa’s lips. For her part, Lexa makes no attempt to conceal her own open staring. Zeroing in on Clarke’s mouth like it's the real prize today.

Clarke’s heart is beating faster than it was during the match. All because of Lexa’s intoxicating nearness, the scent of her and the heat of her body, and the lure of those gorgeous pouty lips.

And fuck it. _Fuck it_. Clarke can’t hold back, can’t deny herself this any longer.

She isn't sure who moves first, only that they meet halfway in a soft collision, lips parting to one another in an instant. Humid, heavy puffs of breath mingle with halting little noises, and if Clarke’s knickers weren’t already damp from Lexa’s performance on court, then this would do it. Because Lexa’s kiss is every bit as thrilling. A shiver runs through Clarke when Lexa’s tongue swipes across her bottom lip, licks into her open mouth. Long, slim fingers weave into her hair and she trembles, all self-control unravelling under Lexa’s touch.

Her own hands are restless as they grip Lexa’s shoulders, shifting along until her thumbs brush the sides of Lexa’s neck. Lexa purrs, actually _purrs_ , and Clarke decides she wants to catalogue every small sound this woman makes.

“I’ve wanted to do this since you scolded me in our first session,” Lexa says between kisses, the whispered words partly muffled by Clarke’s lips.

“Do you have a thing for being told off?” Clarke asks, hand sliding around to cup the back of Lexa’s neck. She’s _so_ warm, skin feverishly hot against Clarke’s palm.

Lexa’s laugh is a gorgeous, breathless thing.

“I have a thing for you.”

The words thrill through Clarke. Arousal spikes between her legs and she kisses Lexa again harder, teeth sinking into the plush softness of her lower lip. Just for a second, just to provoke a quiet growl. The fingers in Clarke’s hair and at her hip tighten, nails scraping gently against her scalp, digging into the fabric of her trousers, and Clarke gasps helplessly into Lexa’s mouth.

“We need to stop,” Clarke says, but she makes absolutely no attempt to remove her lips from Lexa’s.

“Mhmm.”

Mouths slant hotly together, meeting again and again, like they can’t possibly get enough of each other. Clarke’s already addicted to Lexa’s flavour, to the pressure and texture and softness, and she wants _more_. Is desperate for it now that she knows how Lexa tastes, how Lexa whimpers when her tongue dips inside. The noise raises every hair on Clarke’s body, and she feels another gush of wetness soak her underwear.

“I’m serious. I have another client soon,” Clarke says, the words punctuated by a series of searing kisses that leave her panting harshly.

Lexa nods, their noses bumping.

“I have a press conference.”

She tips her head the other way, changing the angle. Clarke lifts her hands to hold Lexa’s face, thumbs sweeping over high cheekbones. An arm winds around her waist, keeping her close, and it makes her heart trip.

Gradually the frenzy recedes as their kisses slow. Neither breaks away, lips grazing as they breathe one another in.

“I should work on that muscle before you go.”

“Or we could just keep making out. I already feel much better.”

Now Clarke does draw back, frowning. And it’s a mistake, because one glimpse of Lexa’s eyes—lids at half mast, pupils dilated—and the wet, swollen bruise of her mouth, is temptation enough to make Clarke surge forward again.

It’s several heated minutes later before she pulls away, shaking her head.

“God, stop, stop. We can’t do this,” she mutters. “Not here.”

Her hands return to Lexa’s shoulders and she’s momentarily distracted by the flex of muscles beneath her palms.

“Okay.”

Lexa’s dark, dark stare remains stuck on Clarke’s lips until she forces her eyes up. When their gazes lock, heat floods through Clarke, and it takes all of her restraint not to grab Lexa by the cheeks once more.

She doesn’t think she’s ever been so desperately turned on from just kissing a person. But no one has kissed her like this, with this level of intensity. It’s the same determination and focus that Lexa exhibits in her tennis and it turns Clarke’s knees to jelly, just as it does as a spectator in the stands.

“When can I see you?” Lexa’s fingers untangle from Clarke’s hair and the gentle, pleasurable tug on the ends makes her lashes flutter. Again, when the calloused tips skate along the line of her jaw. “Tonight? You could come over to my place.”

“Are you propositioning me, Miss Woods? At least buy me dinner first.”

The apples of Lexa’s cheeks tinge a darker pink and she flounders in her reply. “I just meant, you know, for privacy. Because—”

“I’m kidding, Lexa.”

The tiny pout that forms on her lips is far too irresistible. Clarke wants to kiss it away.

“Your coach won’t have a problem with that?”

“Oh, he will. But fuck Titus.”

Clarke lets her fingers trail idly over the hard ridge of Lexa’s collarbone. “He’s not the one I’m interested in.”

It pulls a frustrated little groan from Lexa. She tips her forehead forward to rest against Clarke’s.

“Don’t judge me but I have this rule when I’m in competition. It’s superstitious, I know, but I abstain from—”

“Lexa. You don’t need to explain.” Clarke rubs her thumb over Lexa’s sternum. Gives a rueful smile. “Athletes have their idiosyncrasies and that’s a fairly common one. Not that I’d jump into bed with you at the first opportunity, anyway.”

Lexa retreats only far enough to be able to look at Clarke more fully, a playful quirk to her lips. “You wouldn’t?”

Clarke pokes at Lexa’s chest, faux scowling. “No. Although I realise you’re probably used to girls falling at your feet, being a big shot champion and everything.”

“Uh, nope.” Lexa widens her eyes in emphasis. “That really doesn’t happen.”

Accepting this—although her mind boggles because _look_ at Lexa, how can she not have women lining up to throw themselves at her?—Clarke fiddles with the delicate chain around Lexa’s neck. Curious, she pulls it free to get a better look, holding what appears to be a tiny brass cog up to the light.

“What’s this? I’ve only seen you wear it during your matches.”

Lexa tucks in her chin to glance downwards. “Oh, it’s…” She seems a little embarrassed. “It’s not like an heirloom or anything. I picked it up in some Paris flea market when I competed in the French Open for the first time as a pro. It’s a worthless trinket but, I don’t know, it spoke to me. I’ve worn it at every tournament since.”

“Another little crutch, hm?”

One shoulder lifts in a shrug, a wry smile touching Lexa’s lips. Too attractive for Clarke not to hook her fingers into the chain and use it to pull Lexa in for another kiss.

“So…” Lexa drawls, an indeterminate period of time later, “ _are_ you free this evening? For dinner. I make a pretty mean seafood risotto.”

Now it’s Clarke’s turn to groan because that does sound amazing. All she’s had to eat this past couple of nights are insipid microwaveable meals of dubious nutritional value.

“I want to. Trust me, I do. I just—I think we should wait. You’re competing and I’m working here and it’s the whole moral quandary of the thing.”

Lexa wets her lips. It’s a cheap ploy and, weak as she is, Clarke can’t help but stare.

“Sure I can’t persuade you?”

Clarke shakes her head. “I’m trying to be the responsible one here and you’re really not helping.”

Lexa concedes with a soft laugh. “Alright. What if I switched to a different PT?”

The thought of anyone else treating Lexa—someone with lesser expertise or, God forbid, _Murphy_ —doesn’t sit well with Clarke. Not one bit.

“Look, it’s only for a few more days. We can be professional. It’s not like we won’t see each other at all.”

(Why does it sound like she’s trying to convince herself? And doing a piss poor job of it.)

“Just no kissing?”

Clarke gives a definitive nod. “No kissing.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


The “no kissing” rule lasts about as long as expected when Clarke finds Lexa waiting in the corridor outside the treatment room at ten to eight the next morning. A smoothie in one hand and a Starbucks in the other. Wearing the most obscenely tight spandex leggings, a zip-up hoodie, and a baseball cap. She isn’t sure why the latter causes the synapses of her brain to misfire but it does.

When she recovers, she ushers Lexa into the room, shuts and locks the door behind them. Barely waits until Lexa has put the drinks down before she crowds her back against the wall.

Lexa lets out a soft whoosh of breath as her shoulders make impact, caught between Clarke’s body and the hard surface.

“I thought you said—”

“I know what I said,” Clarke all but growls, palm flat against Lexa’s sternum. “It’s my prerogative to change my mind.”

Because she couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about Lexa. Lexa’s lips and Lexa’s eyes and the way Lexa touched her. The dark, heavy looks Lexa kept giving her while Clarke stretched out her muscles in the short time they had left together yesterday afternoon. Lexa biting her lip but otherwise doing nothing to suppress the unbearably suggestive noises that slipped out. She’s not even certain Lexa was doing it consciously, testing her resolve on purpose.

All Clarke knows is that she was half crazed with lust by the time she slipped her hand beneath her pyjama bottoms and rutted her hips into the mattress to a fast but oddly unsatisfactory orgasm.

And now Lexa’s standing here looking like _that_ and smiling at her and Clarke doesn’t have the strength to resist.

She seizes Lexa in a bruising kiss, sweeping her tongue between parted lips and into the wet, humid space of Lexa’s mouth, swallowing the throaty groan that reverberates between them. Hands grapple for hips and slide into hair, pulling each other closer. Desperate. As if they can’t get close enough.

“Not to sound ungrateful but why are you here?” Clarke heaves out, only to capture Lexa’s mouth again. Blindly, she plucks off Lexa’s cap and tosses it away, delighting in the tiny gasp it earns her. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“There’s a thing.” Lexa’s lips stray over Clarke’s chin, licking at the small dimple that she’s always been a bit self-conscious about. “A WTA thing. Meeting local underprivileged kids.”

A series of kisses are pressed along Clarke’s jawline and she tips her head to allow greater access. “That’s very noble.”

“Mm, but mostly I wanted to see you.”

Without warning Lexa spins them around, reversing their positions so that Clarke is the one shoved up against the wall, her head tilted back. She watches Lexa from beneath lowered lashes, breathless, painfully aroused by the quiet confidence with which Lexa handles her, by those _eyes_. God. They’re hooded and so, so dark, irises almost eclipsed by fathomless black, and the sight of that alone makes Clarke light-headed, glad for the surface supporting her.

Lexa leans in, open mouth latching onto Clarke’s exposed throat. She sucks lightly at the skin just below the hinge of Clarke’s jaw, and Clarke moans. Clutches harder at Lexa’s hipbone, before her hands roam over the crest of Lexa’s backside. She spreads her fingers wide and squeezes, shivering into the hot shuddery breath Lexa expels against her neck.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Lexa murmurs, lips brushing Clarke’s pulse point. “Is that too much?”

It’s not, but the firm thigh that’s insinuated itself between her legs definitely is. Especially when she finds herself pushing her hips down, chasing more pressure.

“Fuck. What are we doing?” Clarke husks, stilling her movements abruptly. “My first client is going to be here any minute.”

As protests go it’s pretty pathetic, because she hasn’t yet taken her hands off Lexa’s arse.

(It’s really the greatest thing. There ought to be sculptures and sonnets immortalising that perfect peach of a derrière. The USA should declare it a national treasure. Give it a medal. An honorary degree. Something.)

Lexa nips at her jaw. “I like it when you swear.” She drags her lips back to Clarke’s, kisses her slow and deep and dirty. “Your accent.” A flick of her tongue. “Is.” A scrape of teeth over Clarke’s bottom lip. “So.” Lexa sucks it into her mouth, releases it with a sigh. “Hot.”

And Clarke feels like she’s going to melt into a puddle on the floor imminently. Between the words and Lexa’s lips and their combined body heat, she feels flushed from head to toe.

Finally, finally, she breaks away with a small groan. Presses her hands to Lexa’s shoulders and evades the swoop of her mouth.

“Lexa,” she says, and the ragged edge to it betrays just how worked up she is. The pout adorning Lexa’s face isn’t helping either, nor is the heavy want in her stare. “You need to go.”

“Have lunch with me.”

Clarke gives a helpless look, aware that the seconds are ticking down.

“Please.”

“Don’t you need to focus? Centre yourself before the semi tomorrow?”

Lexa strokes her fingertips over Clarke’s temple, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You help me focus.”

The fondness in the gesture makes her throat constrict, the soft touch wholly at odds with the fire of moments ago.

She huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “I can’t see how that could possibly be the case. But you’re charming, I’ll give you that.”

“It’s true. I feel… I don't know. Invincible. Like I could take on the world.”

Clarke takes a breath, about to refute it, when there’s a loud knock on the door.

The speed at which they spring apart is almost comical. While Lexa retrieves her cap, Clarke does her best to fix her hair and the tuck of her polo shirt without the aid of a mirror. She tries to calm her racing heart but one glance at Lexa’s kiss-swollen lips, the residual flush on her cheeks, the incriminating dilation of her pupils, and Clarke knows she must look equally ravished.

Another rap on wood startles her out of her daze.

“Well?” Lexa looks expectant.

The person outside tries the handle too and Clarke doesn’t have time to debate it.

She concedes with a sigh. “Fine, but we need to be discreet. Meet me in the foyer at 12.” She makes a shooing motion. “Now go.”

When Clarke opens the door it’s to find one of the junior players with his fist raised, poised to knock again. The boy gawks when Lexa slips past Clarke’s shoulder.

“So,” Clarke clears her throat, hoping it sounds less husky to him than it does to her own ears. “As we discussed, keep your thigh elevated, and I’ll see you at our next appointment.”

“Looking forward to it, Doc,” Lexa responds, backing away slowly. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and throws a wink at Clarke, unobserved by the boy, before pivoting around.

It’s a second before Clarke realises she’s still staring after Lexa. She ducks her head, hiding her blush, and steps aside to allow the junior to enter. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


There’s already a sizeable number of spectators lounging on the grassy banks of Murray Mound when Clarke and Lexa arrive, some enjoying picnics, others having camped out early to get the best view of the giant TV screen affixed to the side of Court 1. It’s another balmy hot day, the sun splitting the sky, and a convivial atmosphere prevails.

In her sunglasses and baseball cap, Lexa looks like any other American tourist—aside from being a head-to-toe walking advertisement for Nike—and it’s an adequate disguise for her to be able to blend into the crowds milling around.

While Clarke grabs them a quieter spot at the far side of the terrace, Lexa goes to join the queue for the mobile vendor selling strawberries and cream, returning a few minutes later with a large tub.

“I thought we could share,” Lexa says as she sinks down to sit crossed-legged on the grass.

Clarke accepts the plastic fork Lexa passes her with a quiet murmur of thanks. From behind the cover of her own dark glasses, she watches Lexa dig in, spearing a strawberry and bringing it to her lips, taking a small bite. And Clarke stares, a little slack-jawed. She’s never been envious of a piece of fruit before but there’s a first time for everything, apparently.

“Not hungry?” Lexa asks, when Clarke hasn’t made any attempt to join in after a minute.

Oh, she is. But not for overpriced strawberries.

“Well, you’re hogging the tub.”

“Okay, grumpy.” Lexa shifts around until she’s facing Clarke. They’re sitting so near to one another that her knees press into Clarke’s outstretched leg, but neither of them moves away. She sinks her fork into another strawberry and holds it up to Clarke’s mouth, coaxing, “Here.”

“I’m capable of using cutlery myself, you know.”

She doesn’t know why she’s being difficult, except this—Lexa feeding her in public—is very much the opposite of showing discretion. But Lexa pouts so prettily and Clarke’s obstinance crumbles in the face of it.

She dutifully opens her mouth and she wishes she could see Lexa’s eyes, because the way Lexa’s lips part as Clarke’s close around the fork suggest she’s just as affected by the intimacy of this as Clarke is.

“You’ve got some cream.” Lexa points to the corner of her own mouth. Frowning, Clarke swipes at the corresponding spot but Lexa shakes her head, “Other side.”

She laughs when Clarke misses it a second time.

“Let me,” she says, smiling. She balances the tub on her lap and reaches out, running her thumb slowly over Clarke’s top lip. The touch lingers and Clarke’s breath catches in her throat once she realises Lexa’s leaning closer, the space between them dwindling.

“I want to kiss you so badly right now,” Lexa says, a low, ardent whisper that makes Clarke’s heart lurch and her nerve endings flare.

She glances around, far too aware of the people nearby. It would only take one person to recognise Lexa and create a fuss. And nothing would draw attention faster than for them to be snogging on the grass in full view of everyone. Keen as Clarke is to find out how much Lexa tastes of strawberries, the risk is too great.

“Lexa—”

“I know. I know,” Lexa huffs, pursing her lips as she retreats, and Clarke has the urge to throw caution to the wind. Because of that _pout_ and this _girl_.

Instead, she places a hand on Lexa’s knee. Gives an apologetic little squeeze.

“So. Semifinal tomorrow. Are you nervous?”

A slight grimace passes over Lexa’s face. “I mean, it’s a grudge match. Not that it would ever be reported that way by the Wimbledon press office.” She pokes at a strawberry with her fork. “Ontari and I trained together as juniors. We were actually friends, to begin with, and we… well, we had a falling out. To put it mildly.”

“Did you fight over a girl or something?” Clarke’s joking but the way Lexa stiffens, stabbing the poor beleaguered bit of fruit with much more force, is extremely telling. “Oh, sorry, I—”

“No, it’s fine.” Lexa shrugs. “It was a long time ago.”

Her voice is calm, almost without inflection when she continues. Like it’s a well-practised soundbite for the media. “It’s good to have a rival, someone to measure your performance against. It pushes me to work harder. The fact is, I’m the underdog going into this. Everyone thinks she’s better than me, that she’s going to win the title. She’s breezed through every round of the tournament so far. She’s in peak condition, excellent form, playing the tennis of her life.” Lexa’s lip curls and some heat returns to her tone. “I swear, Clarke, she’s so fucking smug and condescending. If I can use that complacency against her, I have a real shot.”

“Well,” Clarke’s hand tightens around Lexa’s knee. “I have faith in you.”

Again, she wishes she could get a read on Lexa’s expression without those sunglasses on. Although perhaps it isn’t necessary, because the hand that settles on her own, adjusting after a moment to thread their fingers together, communicates plenty.

“Will you come to the match?” A soft smile curves Lexa’s mouth. “You’re kind of my lucky charm now. And you know how superstitious I am…”

Clarke feigns a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose so. I wouldn’t want to jinx your next game.”

“Don’t act like you don’t enjoy watching me play,” Lexa says, tilting her head to the side and leaning closer again. Her smile broadens, full-lipped and showing her teeth, and Clarke has to fight the impulse to grab Lexa by the front of her hoodie to pull her into a kiss.

It makes her more honest than she should be.

“I enjoy watching you get sweaty. There’s an important distinction.”

It’s worth it for Lexa’s _giggle_ , a sound Clarke wants to capture and replay at her own leisure.

Lexa’s still smiling when she asks, apropos of nothing. “What will you do after this? Wimbledon, I mean.”

“Back to working on footballers, probably. It’s pre-season.”

There’s a pause while Lexa absorbs that, head bobbing. She looks down and away, and when she turns back to Clarke, the sunglasses have slipped down her nose a bit. Green eyes peer over the top of the frames, scanning Clarke’s face as though she’s memorising every detail.  

“You should come to Miami.”

An invitation so light and airy it could be carried away on the breeze. Clarke’s first instinct is to laugh it off, because Lexa can’t possibly be serious.

“With this pale English complexion? I’d burn as soon as I stepped off the plane.”

Lexa’s gaze doesn’t waver, even if her lips do quirk up. “Sunblock is a thing.”

“It’s just not British. Go lobster red or go home.” Clarke turns the tables. “What about you? You should stay in London, do some sightseeing.”

“True, I haven’t experienced all the city has to offer yet.” The supremely unsubtle way Lexa’s eyes dart down to Clarke’s chest and back up has her pressing her lips together to contain a smirk and not quite succeeding. Lexa’s eyes seem to glow brighter, even beneath the shade of her cap. “Maybe I will stick around for a while.”

Without a word Clarke untangles her hand from Lexa’s and pushes to her feet. Off the confused look she receives, probably because the strawberries are still unfinished, Clarke only shrugs. “I’ve got twenty minutes left of my lunch break and we need to go somewhere private if we’re going to spend it kissing.”

Never has she seen someone shoot up so quickly.

  
  
  


***

  
  


Finding a secluded make-out spot proves far more challenging than expected. The sea of people is endless and every time they turn a corner there are more.

It doesn’t help that their knuckles keep brushing together as they weave their way through the crowds. All Clarke really wants is to reach over and take Lexa’s hand, to tug them into a doorway, away from prying eyes, and kiss the hell out of her. Is it really so much to ask?

If Lexa senses Clarke’s growing frustration she says nothing, silently following her lead.

In the end, they wind up back at Clarke’s treatment room, hovering in the corridor, careful to keep a respectable distance so as not to arouse the suspicions of anyone passing by.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Lexa asks, chin up, shoulders loose. Something cocky in her stance that Clarke finds incredibly attractive.

Even so... “I can’t. My next client is due.”

“Oh.” Lexa nods, and the attitude falls away in an instant; pout back on her face, eyes downcast, and Clarke can’t deal with it.

She cranes her neck to look both ways down the empty corridor. Satisfied the coast is clear, she steps up to Lexa. Cups her cheeks and urges Lexa to meet her gaze. For some reason, she needs Lexa to understand that she isn’t blowing her off. Not deliberately.

“If I could, I’d bunk off with you for the rest of the afternoon.”

“I’m not sure what that means but I’m assuming it’d get you into trouble.” Emboldened, Lexa’s hands find Clarke’s waist. “Will I see you tomorrow before the match?”

Clarke hesitates. “I don’t know. I want to but—”

“It’s okay. You have a job to do.”

Lexa looks so gravely serious and solemn that Clarke can’t stop herself from pushing up on her toes to kiss her. Short but no less heartfelt for it. And, God, she _can_ taste the lingering sweetness of strawberries and cream. She nearly goes in for another sample.

Instead, she pulls away and for half a second Lexa chases her mouth and it’s everything.

“If I don’t, consider that a good luck kiss.”

A smirk tugs at Lexa’s lips. “The first of many, I hope.”

Clarke watches her go, something unquantifiably large swelling in her chest. She doesn’t care that Lexa catches her smiling like an imbecile when she glances over her shoulder. Because there’s an equally dopey grin on Lexa’s face too.

  
  
  


***

  
  


Even before the ceremonial coin toss Clarke decides she dislikes Ontari North. Maybe it’s her personal bias showing, but there’s something about the girl that instantly rubs Clarke up the wrong way.

Ontari is diminutive in stature but she carries herself with such arrogance as she struts onto the court, a hooded tracksuit jacket draped over her shoulders like a supervillain cape. That her tennis whites are accented by blood red piping rankles Clarke further. By the time the players begin their five-minute warm-up, what’s supposed to be an easy back and forth, Clarke’s loathing has cemented. Because Ontari doesn’t allow Lexa to get into any sort of rhythm. Keeps hitting the ball low into Lexa’s body, as if she’s purposefully aiming for Lexa’s KT-taped thigh.

When it happens for the fourth time, Clarke can’t hold in a noise of disgust.

“Yeah, she’s a mongrel,” Anya says, staring daggers at Ontari. “Ratbag’s got tickets on herself.”

“She’s a fucking arsehole.”

They share a look, discovering a new affinity in their shared disdain towards Lexa’s nemesis. Anya nods, impressed that Clarke doesn’t mince her words.

“Glad Lexa’s got you in her corner.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Clarke’s recollection of the semifinal is hazy.

What she remembers most vividly is the look of determination that faded to anguish on Lexa’s face. The cry that rang out when Lexa hurried back towards the baseline from the net, body at full stretch to reach for the lob soaring over her head. She could’ve left it. The ball was sailing out—even Clarke could see that—but Lexa had spent the majority of the gruelling first set doggedly pursuing every point. This time she pushed too far.

Clarke saw it in the instant Lexa faltered. How she stumbled a half step, weight landing too heavily on her injured leg, and the muscle seized. Beautiful face crumpling as she howled in pain, the noise slicing through Clarke.

She won’t ever forget the agony carved into Lexa’s expression as she limped over to the courtside chairs, collapsing onto the nearest one. The pure devastation writ large as the doctor examined her. Titus crouching at her side, his brows pulled together in a deep furrow while he spoke to Lexa.

Later, shards of other things come back to Clarke: the eerie silence of the spectators, stunned by the heartbreak unfolding in front of them; Anya hunched forward in her seat, elbows on her knees and face hidden in her hands, swearing under her breath; the umpire’s somber announcement, “ladies and gentlemen, Miss Woods has been forced to retire”; the ripple of warm, respectful applause that went around the stands as Lexa was escorted away, head bent and eyes downcast.

Internally Clarke had pleaded, _look up, look at me_ , but Lexa kept her stare fixed on the ground before she disappeared from sight.

And all Clarke wanted was to go to her. Wrap Lexa up in her arms and tell Lexa how desperately sorry she was.

Because it’s her fault.

She didn’t do enough. She let Lexa down.

If she’d been more concerned with Lexa’s rehabilitation rather than kissing her, if she’d focused on her _job_ instead of stupidly losing her head over a girl, Lexa wouldn’t be in this situation—breaking herself on court.

And the worst of it? Once she’s had time to process the loss, Lexa’s probably going to reach the same conclusion.

Clarke’s stomach twists, nausea rising at the possibility that her own selfishness not only cost Lexa the match and a place in the final, but also might’ve ruined whatever is blossoming between them.

  
  
  


***

  
  


In the corridor outside the elite ladies’ locker room, Clarke pushes off from the wall as soon as she sees Titus approaching. There’s a grim set to his mouth and his expression only darkens when he spots her.

“May I see her?” she asks once he’s within earshot.

She feels physically sick with worry but she’s trying to keep a lid on it. Because this isn’t about her and it’s about time she acted as such.

“She needs space.”

“I only want to speak to her for a minute.”

Titus shakes his head. “If you care about Lexa at all, then you will leave her be.”

His words are low, ground out through his teeth.

Clarke draws herself up. “Look, I know you don’t approve of me, but could you put aside your misgivings for Lexa’s sake? At least temporarily.”

He stares at her in stony ambivalence. Arms folded and unmoving, his tall, broad frame blocking the doorway.

“Just pass a message to her from me, please?” Clarke persists, frustration edging into her tone. “Tell her to come by when she’s ready. I’ll be around for a while yet.”

He remains silent but she forces herself to inject some civility, regardless, when she departs with a clipped, “Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


She waits and waits and waits.

Hangs around far beyond the end of her shift, dragging out the mundane tasks of organising equipment and checking supplies and ensuring everything is in order for the next morning.

Still, Lexa doesn’t show.

And Clarke doesn’t know if it’s because Lexa doesn’t want to talk or is too upset with her or if Titus obstinately chose not to relay the message or, or…

Her mind whirls through all the probable reasons Lexa might have for avoiding her and it makes her feel increasingly helpless. This uncertainty, the not knowing, is killing her.

She checks her phone but there aren’t any new texts from Lexa. The last one Clarke sent, shortly before the beginning of the match—“Good luck today, looking forward to rewarding your victory” followed by a wink emoji—feels like a cruel taunt now, in light of what happened.

For the longest time, Clarke debates whether to reach out first, to let Lexa know she’s thinking of her. She hardly knows what to say that won’t sound trite or inadequate.

So she keeps it simple: _Look after yourself tonight. I’m here if you need me_.

  
  
  


***

  
  


For most of the evening, her phone stays silent and it feels like a quiet condemnation. When it does finally chime with an alert she fumbles in her haste to pick it up.

Her shoulders sag. It’s only a text from Lincoln. Expressing his surprise and sadness about the result, asking if she’s alright. As much as she appreciates his kind thoughtfulness, she doesn’t want to get into a conversation about her professional failings right now. She thanks him and tells him they’ll talk later.

His response— _Don’t beat yourself up over this, Griff_ —goes unopened.

It’s while she’s channel surfing, flicking past adverts, a rerun of an old episode of Friends (the one where Ross is being a knob… again), some documentary about a dinosaur skeleton at the Natural History Museum, that she stumbles upon the post-match press conference from hours ago. She wasn’t purposefully seeking it out, but the second she glimpses Lexa onscreen, looking withdrawn and worn out and utterly defeated, Clarke turns the volume up.

Despite the brave face Lexa puts on as she answers the reporters’ questions, Clarke sees the strain that’s taken its toll in the tight clench of Lexa’s jaw and the pinch of her mouth, how she sits ramrod straight and avoids gazing directly into the camera. It’s obvious this is the last place she wants to be.

“Lexa, Jasper Jordan from Sky Sports. How would you respond to Nia Winterbottom’s comments that players who go into a draw with a known injury do a disservice to the spectators, who in many instances have paid hundreds—if not thousands—of Pounds to attend such a prestigious event?”

That makes Clarke sit forward abruptly, displacing Bellamy from her lap in the process, to his emphatic “mrow” of complaint.

What a fucking rude and insensitive question!

And what a cow this Nia is.

(Mentally, Clarke adds the woman’s name to the top of her shit list, jockeying for the number one position with Ontari, Titus, and Nigel Farage.)

On TV Lexa pierces the unseen man with a hard stare. A muscle in her jaw ticks, a subtle indication of her discomfort with this line of enquiry, and an interminable few seconds pass before she speaks.

“I came here to compete at the highest level, to win,” Lexa begins, evenly. “Do I wish I’d been able to play to the end? Of course. No one is more disappointed than I am to crash out early because of injury.”

She lifts her chin and Clarke doesn’t miss the tiny quiver of Lexa’s lips or the glassy sheen to those green eyes. She aches for Lexa, having her misery put on public display like this, trying so hard to hold herself together in front of the media.

“I gave everything I had and it just… it wasn’t enough.” Lexa swallows visibly. Her long lashes flicker. Emotion coats her words when she continues, “But what’s done is done. Now I have to concentrate on my recovery so I can come back better and stronger next year.”

There’s a barrage of more questions but Lexa stands, effectively bringing the press conference to a conclusion, a definite gingerness to her gait as she walks off.

When the broadcast cuts to a clip of the match, seconds before Lexa’s hamstring gave up, Clarke quickly switches the telly off because can’t bear to watch it again. Certainly not in close up.

It’ll be forever seared in her memory anyway.

  
  
  


***

  
  


As she’s turning down the duvet, attempting to get Bellamy to budge from where he’s taken up almost the entirety of the centre of the bed, another text comes through.

Paws tucked under his body, purring like a broken lawnmower, the big furry lump refuses to give up his prime spot, leaving Clarke only a tiny bit of mattress.

She sighs and reaches for her phone on the nightstand, expecting another pep talk from Lincoln, but it’s Lexa’s name on the screen and her heart lurches to see it.

_Is it too late to call you?_

She doesn’t reply to the message, instead opens up Lexa’s contact profile and presses the mobile number.

Lexa answers immediately, a soft and hesitant “Hello, Clarke” and, with it, some of the tension ebbs from Clarke’s body.

“How’s your leg?”

It’s a painful question, they both know it, but she needs to re-establish that Lexa's wellbeing is her first priority.

“Hurts.”

She can almost hear the pout.

Lexa lets out a quiet breath. “I went to the PT area after the press conference, but a guy—Murray, I think?—said you’d left. He offered to examine me but, honestly, he kind of gave me the creeps.”

“Ugh, that’s Murphy.” Clarke grimaces and shakes her head. “While we’re on the subject of wankers, did Titus tell you he denied me entry to the locker room? I wanted to check on you but he wouldn’t let me through.”

Lexa growls something unintelligible before her voice hardens in anger. “No. No, he did not. Fuck him. Seriously. He’s my coach, not my gatekeeper. I hate that he shut you out like that. It’s not his place to interfere with my relationship.”

A jolt shoots through Clarke, warmth spreading through her chest. “Relationship?”

“The woman I’m dating,” Lexa is quick to clarify before she perhaps realises that description is no less revealing. “I mean, uh…”

“Oh? Is that what we’re doing?”

Clarke flops back onto the small portion of the mattress Bellamy’s permitted her to have, laying perilously close to the edge. She bites down on her bottom lip to contain her smile.

“Well.” It’s adorable how stiff Lexa sounds now. “From my perspective, our lunch was a date.” She pauses, her uncertainty palpable over the line, and it makes Clarke giddier. “Wasn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“Clarke.” Close to a whine.

The residual band of pressure below Clarke’s diaphragm eases, replaced with something expansive that pangs with every thud of her heart.

She relents. “Yes, I would say so.”

The line goes silent, a short lull while they let the acknowledgement settle and Clarke listens to Lexa’s breathing.

Lexa’s next words are tentative. “I’m sorry it took me this long to contact you. I needed to wallow for a while.” She gives a hollow chuckle. “Anya says I go into a horrible sulk when I lose and I didn’t want to expose you to that.”

“Lexa, you don’t have to apologise.”

Clarke wets her lips, takes a second to bolster her courage. “Will you come by for a session tomorrow? If you’d rather seek treatment from someone else, I understand. In fact, there are several specialists I could refer you to if—”

“I don’t want another PT, Clarke.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

She turns onto her side and runs a hand over Bellamy’s spine, lips twitching at his startled “mrrr”. She repeats the action, dragging her fingers through his majestic charcoal grey floof, until he turns his head and gives her a little warning bite on the wrist.

“Lexa?”

“Yeah?”

Clarke burrows her cheek into the pillow. She closes her eyes and pictures Lexa in a similar position, stretched out on her bed. Perhaps with a towel-wrapped ice pack wedged under her thigh.

As soon as that detail enters her mind, Clarke’s throat tightens, the guilt gnawing at her once more.

“Keep it wrapped overnight to control the swelling and I’ll see you first thing.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


When Lexa enters the treatment room it’s with a slight limp, clearly favouring her uninjured leg. The sight of it hardens Clarke’s resolve.

She takes a deep breath and clenches her hands at her sides.

“Before we start I need to say something.”

She rehearsed this speech in the shower this morning, but with a captive audience, Lexa’s cautious green eyes upon her, it’s a struggle not to just cross the room and hug Lexa like she wants to. Lexa, who looks so unsure of herself as she hangs back beside the door.

So Clarke steels herself to continue.

“This past week I’ve allowed my attraction to you to cloud my judgement. If my focus hadn't been divided I would’ve realised sooner that you were pushing yourself beyond your limits. I should’ve—”

“Clarke, stop.”

Lexa moves closer until she’s in Clarke’s space. She doesn’t hesitate to take hold of Clarke’s upper arms. The shyness that shrouded Lexa only a minute ago has fallen away, replaced with the grit that Clarke recognises from the court. Jaw set and mouth in a firm line as she stares Clarke down.

“It isn’t your fault.”

Clarke holds her gaze, stubborn. “But if I’d only—”

“No.” Forceful. Eyes flashing. “You are _not_ to blame for my injury.” Then Lexa sighs. “I was so hellbent on beating Ontari that I ignored the signs. I pushed and pushed until I ran out of juice and that’s entirely on me.”

“All the same, I feel responsible.”

“Yeah, Clarke, it was really all those exercises we did,” Lexa says with heavy sarcasm. Her lip curls, teasing. “Didn’t think your ego was this big but apparently it rivals mine.”

Despite herself, Clarke cracks a small smile. She rolls her eyes slightly. “Now you’re mocking me.”

“Well, you’re being so dramatic. That’s usually my preserve.”

Lexa’s hands slide up to round Clarke’s shoulders. She gives a little squeeze and Clarke takes it as a cue to step into Lexa’s body. Her own palms settle at the dip of Lexa’s waist.

“If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t even have gotten this far in the Championships. The truth is, my leg was always going to give out. It was a question of ‘when’ not ‘if’, okay?”

She waits for Clarke’s reluctant nod before her arms slide fully around Clarke’s shoulders. Pulls Clarke closer and she goes willingly, tucking her nose into the crook of Lexa’s neck, where the scent of skin and the perfume she wears is concentrated. She breathes Lexa in, relieved but still regretful.

(Because no matter what Lexa says, Clarke believes she could’ve done more to help.)

They stay like that, clinging, just soaking in the warmth of one another for minutes on end.

It’s Clarke who eventually pulls away. She favours Lexa with a cross look. “You should know that I’m also a little miffed at you.”

“Oh?”

“If I’m going to continue as your PT, I need you to be honest with me.” She taps Lexa’s sternum with one finger. “That means no bullshitting or trying to be a martyr. It’s not shameful or weak to admit you’re in pain.”

She sees Lexa’s jaw tighten, how her eyes flinch away for a second before returning. But Clarke doesn’t coddle her.

“I’d hate to see you end your career prematurely by being cavalier about injury. Because if you carry on this way that’s what’s going to happen.”

She softens slightly, taking hold of one of the drawstrings of Lexa’s hoodie.

“I’m not saying all this to frighten you or hurt you or embarrass you. I’m saying it because I… I care about you, Lexa.”

Wide eyes flit between her own, searching, before Lexa’s gaze drops to her mouth.

“Can we just agree that I’m suitably chastised and get to the part where I’m kissing you?”

Clarke flattens her hand against Lexa’s chest, holding off her advance. “PT first.”

She ignores Lexa’s petted lip and points to the table.

With an aggrieved sigh, Lexa peels off her hoodie but whatever satisfaction Clarke felt about asserting her authority vanishes once she sees that Lexa’s only wearing a sports bra underneath.

What was she saying about prioritising treatment?

  
  
  


***

  
  


They get as far the deep tissue massage before Clarke has to turn Lexa over and haul her up into a kiss. Between the sex noises and Lexa’s gloriously muscled back and all the supple skin beneath her palms, Clarke could only take so much. And she tried, she really did.

Now there are hands under her shirt, and the calluses on Lexa’s fingers feel heavenly as they skim over her navel, and she groans her approval into Lexa’s open mouth.

“When do you get off?” Lexa asks.

 _Soon_ , Clarke thinks, _if_ _you keep this up_.

They share a look, both cognizant of the inherent innuendo. Lexa smirks, even as her ears tinge pink, and Clarke blots it from her vision with another kiss.

“Five.” She drapes an arm around Lexa’s shoulders, free hand tracing along the cut-glass slope of Lexa’s jawline, a moment later following the same path with her lips.

“Could we meet? Away from here?” Lexa’s breath catches when Clarke licks at the hinge. “No offence but I’m kind of sick of these four walls.”

Clarke’s husky laugh is smothered against Lexa’s jaw. “I know a place we could go. You like barbecue pulled pork?”

When Lexa leans back to give her a “duh” stare it provokes another laugh.

“Although… pretty brave taking an American somewhere like that.”

“Oh, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, smartarse.”

Dark, heavy-lidded eyes watch Clarke. That cocky little smirk is back and Clarke is no less defenceless in the face of it.

“That’s not all I want to try.”

It’s obvious Lexa isn’t talking about culinary adventures and Clarke doesn’t know whether to groan at the heavy-handed implication or suggest they skip the food entirely. Monty’s does deliver until midnight, after all.

The flattened palms on Clarke’s stomach slide up, tickling the sides of her ribs and she squirms away from the touch. Which only makes Lexa smirk harder now she’s discovered one of Clarke’s weak spots.

“You’ll have to get to know me better first,” she says archly, but she can’t control the shiver that goes through her when Lexa’s thumbs brush against the underwire of her bra, or the way her nipples tighten behind the satin and lace. Part of her wills Lexa to reach higher, to take that next step, so she feels mildly frustrated when Lexa’s hands drop to grip at her waist instead.

“Mhm, I plan to.”

Those hands pull her closer and Lexa gives her the gentlest, most delicate kiss. A barely-there brush of their lips that nonetheless leaves Clarke swaying into Lexa’s body.

It’s different from their previous kisses. Infinitely more tender than Clarke knows how to cope with. Matched by the softness shining in green eyes.

“What was that for?” she asks, running her fingers over Lexa’s jaw once again, then up over the shell of a little ear.

“A thank you,” Lexa says simply. “For everything.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Clarke arrives early to find the place is already starting to fill up with the early evening crowd. She claims a table near the back for greater privacy, and it isn’t until Niylah comes over to take her drinks order that Clarke remembers she didn't contact her.

To her credit, Niylah’s friendly smile never wavers as she jots down one gin and tonic in her little notepad, neatly averting any potential awkwardness. It’s while she’s telling Clarke about the day’s specials that Clarke’s eyes stray towards the door, in time to see Lexa breeze into the canteen.

She isn’t sure what she was expecting but it definitely wasn’t this: Lexa in high-waisted cut off denim shorts and a vintage white t-shirt that does very little to conceal the simple black bra she wears underneath.

And her hair. God, her _hair_.

Loose and wavy over her shoulders and reaching halfway down her torso, threaded through with golden highlights from all the time spent playing out in the sun. Clarke’s only ever seen Lexa’s hair tied back in a ponytail or coiled in a bun, and while she always looks lovely, like this she’s nothing short of a revelation.

All Clarke can do is gape.

Niylah follows her line of sight and her smile takes on a different dimension. She winks. “I’ll give you a few minutes, shall I?”

Clarke doesn’t even acknowledge Niylah’s question beyond an absent nod, too busy staring.

She stands slowly, entranced.

Her entire world narrowing to this gorgeous woman walking towards her.

A small smile adorns Lexa’s face, eyes alight as they rove up Clarke’s body. She could kick herself for not having brought a change of clothes to work, still in the standard polo shirt and slacks, but Lexa doesn’t appear to mind.

“Hi,” Clarke says, feeling oddly nervous.

Lexa tucks the fall of her perfect, perfect hair behind one ear and leans in, planting a soft kiss on Clarke’s cheek, millimetres away from the corner of her mouth.

“Hi.” A whisper, almost lost to the surrounding buzz of conversation from nearby tables.

She remains close, warm breath gusting over Clarke’s skin, a cloud of perfume and shampoo and _Lexa_ enveloping her.

Clarke wants to reach out. Just pull Lexa against her body and kiss her senseless in front of all these people. The glint in Lexa’s eyes tells Clarke she’s not alone.

“You look nice,” Clarke says, retaking her seat. It’s a ridiculous understatement.

Lexa dips her head at the compliment as she sits opposite, smile stretching, and Clarke notices the subtle dusting of blusher that accentuates those high cheekbones, mascara on dark lashes, eyeliner, the clear gloss on Lexa’s lips.

“You do, too.”

Clarke scoffs lightly, because _come on_.

“Really, Clarke.”

A hand reaches across the table, long fingers sweeping over her knuckles. Lexa’s expression is so soft and sincere that Clarke melts to be on the receiving end of it.

Of course, Niylah chooses that moment to return. “Do you ladies need more time or are you ready to order?”

Niylah glances between the two of them knowingly, and Clarke’s cheeks grow warm. She clears her throat. “Um, yes, I think we’re ready.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Lexa’s eyes widen as she bites into the lightly toasted brioche bun stuffed full of pulled pork and slaw.

“Oh, wow.” She shields her mouth while she chews. Gulps down the rest before she adds, “This is really good.”

“Told you.”

Feeling vindicated, Clarke pops a sweet potato fry between her lips.

“Yeah, well, forgive my scepticism. I went to a tennis academy in North Carolina so I ate a _lot_ of pulled pork.”

Elbows resting on the table, Clarke props her chin on her hand and leans forward. Intrigued by this tidbit and keen to learn more. “Is that where you’re from?”

A shake of Lexa’s head while she sucks her fingers clean. Clarke watches in a daze as full lips wrap around each digit in turn. When she finally blinks and drags her eyes up, it’s to find Lexa’s darkened ones rooted upon her too.

“Nope. Born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.” Lexa wipes off her hands with a paper napkin and reaches for her tall glass of water garnished with lime to take a sip. “I won a scholarship to the academy when I was twelve. That’s where I met Anya. She was a few years older than me and kind of adopted me. By sixteen I dropped out of academic classes to focus on competing on the junior circuit.”

Clarke blows out a slow breath. Impressed, but also a little sad thinking about the discipline and many hours of practice Lexa must’ve put in to become so dedicated to her sport at such a formative age. It couldn’t have left much time for being a regular teenager and all that entails.

“Was it awfully hard being away from your family?”

Lexa lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I adapted quickly.”

“And do you see them much now?”

“My parents sometimes watch me play in the US, work commitments permitting. Other than that, during the holidays.” She looks down at her plate. “We aren’t super close. I mean, I travel so much and they have their own lives, so...”

Lexa pulls in a quiet breath and rallies.

When she meets Clarke’s eyes again, there’s a faintly teasing smile at the corner of her mouth.

“What about you? Did you grow up in London? And did you always want to be a PT to entitled soccer players?”

Clarke releases a low chuckle. “No, I intended to study medicine but I didn’t get the grades. Mum wasn’t pleased, to say the least.” She raises her eyebrows, recalling the pitched battles that had ensued between them, and Dad’s attempts to mediate. “She’s a GP and had grand visions of me following in her footsteps. Joining her practice. Carrying on the long legacy of doctors in our family.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”

Clarke tilts her head in question.

“Calling you ‘Doc’ seems pretty insensitive now,” Lexa explains, looking pained. “If I’d known—”

“I quite like it, actually.”

A slow smile returns to Lexa’s face as she eyes Clarke. “Yeah?”

Clarke plucks another fry from the basket they’re sharing and nibbles on the end of it. Aware of Lexa’s heavy stare on her.

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but… I have a nickname for you.”

They share a look that makes Clarke’s skin prickle with heat.

“And what’s that?”

She struggles to hide a grin while she chews. Pauses for effect before she tells Lexa, “Legs.”

There’s a silence.

Lexa’s mouth twitches, her lips parting as she soundlessly repeats the word. For a second, Clarke worries she’s offended her.

Then Lexa laughs. Just throws back her head and laughs. Full and hearty, eyes crinkling and showing her gums. The sight warms Clarke from the inside and soon has her joining in too. They draw a few curious glances from the surrounding diners but Clarke doesn’t care. She’s wholly wrapped up in the woman sitting across from her.

It takes a minute or two for Lexa’s laughter to dissipate. Every time she catches Clarke’s eye, it sets her off again. And Clarke feels like she’s glowing, like her chest has cracked open and there’s light spilling out. Her cheeks ache from smiling so wide.

“Seriously?” Lexa says, another few chortles bubbling up. “You really refer to me as ‘Legs’?”

“Privately, yes. Just between me and Lincoln.”

“Oh my God, your friend too?”

“Well, have you seen yourself?” Clarke gestures vaguely towards Lexa. “Whoever invented the phrase ‘legs for days’ obviously had you in mind.”

Lexa shakes her head, lashes lowered, still attempting to rein in her amusement. But quietly preening as well.

And Clarke drinks it all in.

  
  
  


***

  
  


The hours fly by in laughter and easy, free-flowing conversation, discussing their mutual love of travel and all the far-flung destinations they’ve been to. Clarke tells Lexa about the backpacking trip she and Lincoln took last year, winding their way through Thailand, how he met Octavia at one of those tacky telephone bars in Bangkok and they’ve been shacked up ever since. Lexa waxes lyrical about Tokyo and Shanghai and Seoul, relays an anecdote about the time Anya took her to meet her family in Brisbane and they were convinced the two were a couple.

(“We _never_ dated,” Lexa stresses, as if it’s something of vital importance.)

By the time they get the bill, the atmosphere in the canteen has shifted to accommodate the nighttime regulars that throng the bar. A DJ has taken up the decks in the corner and the music spills out onto the street from the open doors.

Clarke laughs to herself when she sees Niylah has applied a ‘family’ discount, a crude drawing of a rainbow scribbled beside it. So she makes sure to leave a hefty tip as thanks.

On the pavement outside, she and Lexa sway close. Gravitating to one another. The thumping bass beat of the music makes it difficult to be heard, so Clarke tugs Lexa by the hand a little further down the road. She doesn’t let go, their fingers remaining loosely tangled together.

“I had a lovely time tonight,” Clarke says, yet the words feel woefully inadequate. She’s never had a date go like this. Has never felt so relaxed in another person’s company and simultaneously full of anticipation for where it might lead.

“Would you like to go for a drink somewhere else?” Hopeful. Lexa’s eyes roam over Clarke’s face.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and shakes her head. “No, I wouldn’t.”

She sees the way Lexa’s expression falls in the half second before she composes herself, giving a subtle nod.

It’s too much.

Clarke pulls Lexa nearer by the belt loops of those damn cut-offs, relishing the soft hitch of surprise as their bodies collide. She reaches up to slip her hand behind Lexa’s neck, beneath the thick curtain of hair. Lifts her chin, until she’s only a shallow breath away from the mouth she’s been thinking about kissing all evening.

Lexa’s lips part in anticipation, lashes fluttering as her eyelids slide shut.

“I don’t want to go for a drink,” Clarke says. “Because I’m taking you home with me.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


The short walk to the flat feels like a hazy dream, their hands remaining linked as they stroll past groups of people chatting and laughing and enjoying the last rays of the evening sun outside the bars and cafes that line the street.

Clarke only relinquishes her hold once they reach her building, to dig through her bag for her keys and lead Lexa up the two flights of stairs.

The sense of expectation hanging between them feels as thick and close as the humid air trapped in the stairwell.

It makes Clarke clumsy, as though she’d knocked back much more than those two G&Ts over the course of dinner.

While she fumbles with the lock she’s entirely attuned to Lexa’s presence behind her. Warm breath on her neck. Hands on her waist, turning her around, crowding her up against the door.

She only has time to draw in a quick breath before Lexa leans in, catching her mouth in a kiss that sends electricity sparking along her nerve endings. It deepens in an instant, all heat and pressure and the hint of sweet barbecue glaze on Lexa’s tongue.

And Clarke reaches for whatever she can, fingers splayed across Lexa’s lower back, grabbing fistfuls of cotton, pulling Lexa’s hips into her own.

The kiss turns wetter, hungrier as Lexa works her hands under Clarke’s shirt to get to the overheated skin below. Someone moans—Clarke isn’t sure whom, but the noise vibrates down her spine, sets off a warm, heavy pulse between her thighs. Every press of Lexa’s lips and swipe of her tongue only makes her more aware of the growing ache.

When a knee nudges between her own, Clarke drags her mouth away with a quiet gasp, eyes flitting between Lexa’s. They’re black, pupils blown wide and eating Clarke up, and she has to resist the urge to dive in for another kiss.

Because if they carry on like this she’s going to let Lexa take her here in the stairwell. And she’s classier than that.

“Inside,” Clarke says, struggling to catch her breath with the way Lexa’s staring at her. Like she’s parched and Clarke’s the only source of water for thousands of miles around. “I want you inside _now_.”

It takes a second for her to register the double meaning in her own words and she doesn’t even care. It’s no less true.

Lexa’s little smirk only adds to her agitation.

They stumble through the door in a flurry of frantic kisses, tugging at hair and clothing, carelessly dropping their bags and moving blindly through the flat until Clarke finds herself backed into the table that occupies much of the floor space of her tiny kitchen. Hands hook behind her thighs to hoist her up onto the table while she pulls Lexa’s t-shirt free from the cut-offs. Tight abdominal muscles twitch beneath the glide of her palms as they roam up under the hem. She swallows a shared groan when she takes two handfuls of Lexa’s small (but no less wonderful for it) boobs, feeling the poke of hard nipples through the satin cups of Lexa’s bra.

Another wanton sound gets smothered between them as Lexa pushes Clarke’s thighs apart and steps into the space, reaching for Clarke’s belt and unbuckling it. Going for the button at the waistband, lowering the zip, sliding her hand inside the open fly. Movements deft and assured. Never once breaking the seal of their lips until her fingertips brush over soaked lace and Clarke’s hips rock forward to meet the exploratory touch.

“God, Clarke,” Lexa exhales in wonder as she reaches lower, cupping Clarke as best she can despite the awkward angle and the tight confines of Clarke’s trousers.

Clarke takes advantage of Lexa’s awe to mouth over her jaw and down her neck, temporarily abandoning one boob to sweep the cascade of hair to one side. Sucking harsh kisses down the long, elegant column of Lexa’s throat to the juncture where it meets her shoulder. So caught up in the flavour of Lexa’s skin and the scent of the subtle fragrance Lexa favours, groping at the soft swells of Lexa’s tits, the heady anticipation that any second now Lexa’s going to just shove her underwear aside and fuck her the way she _needs_ it, that she doesn’t immediately notice Lexa has gone silent and still instead.

“Um, Clarke.”

The fingers jammed down the front of her slacks withdraw and Clarke growls her frustration into the crease of Lexa’s neck before scraping her teeth over the tender skin there in rebuke. She sweeps her thumbs over the outline of Lexa’s nipples, gratified by Lexa’s hitch of breath and the way she pushes her chest into Clarke’s hands.

Her lips blaze a trail back up the side of Lexa’s neck, finding their way back to Lexa’s mouth. Kissing her full and deep, tasting Lexa with a demanding sweep of her tongue. But she senses the distraction, how Lexa keeps trying to edge away even as her fingers dig into Clarke’s hips.

Eventually, Clarke pulls back, brows furrowed in concern. “What’s wrong?”

A pause.

Lexa’s already flushed cheeks grow a shade darker.

“Your cat is staring at me.”

She points towards Bellamy, who’s hunched on the counter not two feet away and emitting a low-level growl, the sourest of sour expressions on his face.

Clarke hadn’t even noticed.

“Seriously?” she says, unable to contain her exasperation. She feels like she’s about to explode and she’s not going to be denied an orgasm all because Lexa’s intimidated by an aggressive feline. “I’ve finally got my hands on you after two weeks of very detailed dreams about shagging you on my exam table. So will you please keep kissing me and forget about the bloody cat?”

Lexa looks torn between arousal and sulking. “It’s giving me performance anxiety.”

“But… you play tennis for a living in front of thousands of people!”

“Millions if we’re counting TV audiences, but okay.”

Clarke stares, incredulous.

“Maybe he doesn’t like me because I’m a Yankee.”

“Oh, stop.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and shoves lightly at Lexa’s shoulder, slipping off the table with as much grace as she can muster when her trousers are nearly hanging off her hips. She scoops Bellamy up, ignoring his yowl of protest, and deposits him in the bathroom, firmly shutting the door.

“Happier now?”

Lexa nods, “Much.”

“Good,” Clarke says, sauntering the few steps over to Lexa. “Now where were we?”

“I was about to spoil the kitchen table for you forever.”

“Oh really?”

Lexa takes hold of Clarke’s hips and manoeuvres her around, backing her up against the piece of furniture in question. Her rear bumps against the solid wood and she grips the edge to boost herself up, settling once more with Lexa between her spread thighs.

“Mhm.” Lexa’s eyes flash with intent. “I guarantee you won’t be able to sit here without being reminded of me making you come.”

Clarke catches her bottom lip between her teeth, heavy eyes raking over Lexa. Impossibly turned on by this bravado, the muss of Lexa’s hair and the swollen pink of those bee-stung lips.

She lifts one eyebrow. “Bold words.”

Lexa drags Clarke closer to the edge, until her groin is flush with Lexa’s torso. For all the arch posturing, a quiet groan slips out, and she doesn’t think twice about wrapping her legs around Lexa.

“I’m more a woman of action,” Lexa murmurs.

She reaches for the hem of Clarke’s shirt and pulls it up and off, tossing it away. As soon as her gaze drops to Clarke’s breasts, encased as they are in cream satin and lace, Lexa’s jaw goes slack. Dark eyes widen, roaming over the abundance of skin on display and Clarke has to bite back a laugh. Because Lexa’s face is a picture right now.

(It’s hardly the first time she’s had this reaction—she’s well aware of how overwhelming the initial reveal of her boobs can be—but it doesn’t make it any less satisfying.)

Clarke smirks. “See something you like?”

To her credit, Lexa seems to snap out of it quickly. She nods, that searing stare lifting from Clarke’s chest to settle on her mouth. Clarke licks her lips and Lexa’s eyes follow the movement as she leans closer. The few inches of air between them feel supercharged and Clarke tingles where Lexa’s thumbs rest above the waistband of her trousers.  

And she can’t stand it.

Can’t wait a single second longer.

She grabs Lexa’s hand and pushes it inside her slacks. They both shudder as Lexa’s fingers slide down the cleft covered by the thin, sodden scrap of lace. When Lexa retreats this time, it’s only to slip under Clarke’s underwear, to stroke through her, to dip into liquid heat.

And Clarke jerks into it, gasping. Hips rising off the surface of the table. Shamelessly rocking forward to chase the contact. One hand going to the back of Lexa’s neck, the other curling around her bicep. Clinging. Desperate.

They watch each other through half-lidded eyes while Lexa slicks her fingers and it’s almost unbearably intimate; the wet sounds, the hot puff of Lexa’s breath against her chin, that ravenous stare.

“Lex—” she starts only to break off on a choked moan when Lexa presses two fingers inside.

And, God, her imagination couldn’t prepare her for the reality of this.

The reach.

The rub of those calluses.

How Lexa seems to instinctively discover the most sensitive parts and bring her body to a fever pitch so quickly it’s almost embarrassing.

The pace builds as Clarke uses her grip on Lexa’s neck for leverage. Pelvis rolling to meet every deep thrust, the table creaking beneath her, shortened breath mingling with Lexa’s own, their mouths hovering close. She cries out when Lexa’s thumb finds her clit, a hardened patch of skin grazing against the sensitive tip, and she drags Lexa closer by the neck. Eliminating the last space between them, moaning her appreciation against Lexa’s parted lips.

Lexa kisses her. Taking possession of Clarke’s mouth with the kind of ferocity that leaves her trembling while she grinds into the press of Lexa’s thumb.

Pressure gathers at the base of her spine and she speeds the desperate jut of her hips, nails scratching at Lexa’s nape and scoring into the solid tensed muscle of Lexa’s upper arm.

“Fuck, don’t stop,” she pants through the kiss, clawing at Lexa, then letting out a startled yelp when Lexa wrenches her mouth away to push her flat against the table.

The new angle, the dark look of single-minded concentration in Lexa’s expression, the curl and precise friction of those fingers inside her, has Clarke’s hips arching sharply off the surface. Her own fingers tangle in Lexa’s t-shirt for purchase while Lexa leans over her, and all it takes is a few more seconds of driving herself down on Lexa’s hand before Clarke peaks, clenching hard and shuddering through it.

Eyes slamming shut, she tips her head back, mouth dropping open for the strangled moan that works its way up her throat. One that starts deep and gravelly before tailing off into a pitch she didn’t even know her vocal chords were capable of. She’s too far gone to be self-conscious.

And Lexa doesn’t stop.

She works Clarke down slowly, retreating with gentle, shallow strokes that make her shiver and gasp until she’s too sensitive for more.

It takes a minute to catch her breath, chest heaving and stomach fluttering. Nearly robbed of the oxygen in her lungs once again when she opens her eyes to see Lexa’s heated stare and the flush that covers her skin, how she looks just as wrecked as Clarke feels.

She hauls herself up by her grip on Lexa’s shirt. Not sorry for the way the fabric is all wrinkled and pulled out of shape. She thumbs along Lexa’s jaw, follows with her mouth until she reaches a small but perfectly formed earlobe.

“You might be right about the table,” Clarke husks, lips brushing the shell of Lexa’s ear. “How about we move to the bed so you can ruin that for me too?”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Clarke’s mouth remains fused with Lexa’s while they strip off their clothing, separating only for the briefest of seconds to yank Lexa’s t-shirt over her head; swapping feverish kisses as they drift the short distance to the bed in the corner; tugging Lexa’s denim shorts down her hips, sliding them the rest of the way down her legs until Lexa’s able to kick them off.

Clarke pushes Lexa back and she lands with a soft thud on the mattress. Staring up at Clarke, mouth open, watching with dark, hooded eyes while Clarke shimmies out of her work trousers. A soft sound lodges in Lexa’s throat when Clarke reaches behind to unhook her bra. Another time she might’ve made a show of dragging the thin straps off her shoulders, teasing the moment out but, right now, all she wants is to feel Lexa’s skin against her own. No more delays.

The wanting noise Lexa lets out as she takes in that first glimpse of Clarke’s bare breasts sends another bolt of need between Clarke’s legs. But there are more pressing matters than her own renewed arousal, namely the half-naked woman sitting on her bed.

“Come here,” Lexa commands, authority thoroughly undermined by the rough tremor in her voice.

Clarke only smirks and drops her knickers. And the reaction—immediate, visceral, in the way Lexa sucks in a sharp breath—makes her feel powerful, exhilarated by the hunger so readily apparent in Lexa’s gaze as her eyes dip and she wets her lips.

Another dull throb tugs low at the sight of that pink tongue darting out. At the long legs stretched out on the duvet, the clearly defined v of Lexa’s hipbones dipping below the edge of her underwear, the bunched muscles of her abdomen, modest breasts contained by the plain black bra, the mouth-watering jut of Lexa’s collarbones.

Clarke doesn’t waste any more time.

Because she _wants_.

She prowls over Lexa’s body and straddles her lap. Drapes her arms over Lexa’s shoulders. Sighs when Lexa’s hands go immediately to her tits, cupping their weight, pushing them together and giving an experimental little squeeze.

Lexa loosens a small groan. “God, they’re even better than I imagined.”

“Thought about my boobs a lot, did you?”

“Maybe...”

Lexa bends to lick a wet stripe up the length of Clarke’s throat and Clarke clings tighter, threading her fingers into Lexa’s hair.

“Maybe I thought about other things too,” Lexa says, a suggestive lilt to her tone. “Maybe I even broke one of my rules after our first session.”

Clarke draws back an inch to stare at Lexa. Taking in the subtle curve of Lexa’s mouth, the haze of lust in half-lidded green eyes as realisation sinks in. “You…?”

A slow nod, Lexa’s smile growing in tiny increments.

Suddenly Clarke’s assaulted with all sorts of wicked visuals of Lexa arching under her own hands.

And she can’t handle it.

She takes a fistful of Lexa’s hair and kisses her, a frantic mash of lips and tongue. The hands on her breasts migrate to her hips and Clarke almost mourns the loss of that touch until she feels Lexa’s arms wrap around her. The next thing she knows she’s toppling forward, cushioned by Lexa’s body beneath her. Pressed breast to breast, hip to hip, and the barrier of Lexa’s underwear seems like the most egregious thing. She needs to feel Lexa, _all_ of her. Skin on skin.

She tries to worm a hand under Lexa’s back to get to the catch of the bra. It earns her a breathless laugh and she grumbles, “This needs to come off.”

Lexa pushes up onto one elbow to help and Clarke can taste the shape of her grin, how it stretches wider when Clarke grapples with the fastening, less than suave in her haste. She gets it undone on the second attempt and tugs the offending article away, both groaning as soon as their nipples graze over skin, and Clarke tips her head to deepen the kiss once more. Licking into Lexa, full and filthy.

Warm hands shift, restless, and the rough skin of Lexa’s palms—hardened from years of gripping a racket and doing weight training—feels spectacular dragging up and down Clarke’s back. On each descent they dip lower until Lexa finally grabs at Clarke’s bottom, pulling her taut against her body, tilting her pelvis to grind into Clarke, Lexa’s loud guttural moan muffled by the seal of their lips.

The sound rattles through Clarke’s bones and she breaks away, only to scatter quick, hot kisses over Lexa’s throat and sternum. Shuffling down the bed on her hands and knees to map the expanse of skin with her lips. She runs her tongue between the valley of Lexa’s breasts, mouths at the soft swells, delighting in the way Lexa arches underneath her, the fingers that wind into her hair to urge her on, the choked whimper Lexa releases when Clarke takes a nipple between her lips and sucks on the tip.

Clarke can’t get her fill of those perfect little tits or all the encouraging noises Lexa makes, steadily growing in volume; the grunts and growls on court and on the exam table nothing compared to this.

She spends long minutes attending to every inch of Lexa’s boobs. Tongue circling and lapping and flicking at the stiff peaks in turn until Lexa’s fingers begin to clutch and release at Clarke’s scalp, other hand gripping her shoulder almost painfully tight.

She takes the hint. Kisses her way down Lexa’s torso, abs contracting beneath the glide of her lips. Bites at the sharp line of Lexa’s hipbone, just above the elasticated edge of Lexa’s bikini cut knickers.

She can smell Lexa, see the patch of wetness that darkens the front of Lexa’s underwear. She doesn’t hesitate to hook her thumbs under the waistband and pull the scrap of material down. Too worked up to be coy about it. And it seems the feeling is mutual because Lexa parts her legs without any prompting, exposing herself to Clarke’s covetous gaze.

There’s Lexa, flushed and swollen and open. Resting on her elbows, watching and waiting. Chest rising and falling, the hard tips of coral pink nipples shiny with saliva. And Clarke just has to take a second or ten to commit this vision to memory, because she’s going to be revisiting it many, many times.

“Clarke.”

She glances up, registering the glimmer of pride in Lexa’s eyes, the smug uptick of those lips. Preening again about the effect she has on Clarke.

It makes Clarke determined to wipe that smirk away.

Without a word, she hunkers down and doesn’t allow Lexa the chance to ready herself for the first sweep of Clarke’s tongue along her drenched slit.

Lexa practically howls, collapsing back against the covers, body undulating into the lick.

Clarke takes another few broad swipes, every curse and groan that drops from Lexa’s mouth spurring her on. She swirls around Lexa’s entrance, gathering the slick that spills over; weaves up through intricate folds; circles around the engorged swell of Lexa’s clit. Lexa jolts, hips rocking up, chasing Clarke’s mouth for greater friction and pressure. Shuddering when the tip of Clarke’s tongue dips inside, thighs clamping around Clarke’s ears and trapping her there.

All Clarke can hear is the blood rushing in her head, the sloppy wet suction of her mouth, Lexa’s near-constant litany of moans sounding more subdued and distant now.

She firms her tongue and pushes in further, finding Lexa’s flavour all the more potent from the source. And Clarke loves it, eyes rolling back as she hums her pleasure into Lexa.

Lexa’s enthusiasm matches Clarke’s own. Completely uninhibited in her lust, riding Clarke’s face with abandon. Clarke does her best to meet it, working in and out until her jaw begins to tire.

By the time she retreats Lexa is _dripping_ onto the duvet, threads of viscous slick coating her labia, and the sight makes Clarke clench around nothing.

She swoops back in, dragging her tongue up through the wetness to feather the tip over Lexa’s clit. Plunges one finger, soon followed by a second, into Lexa and revels in the emphatic “fuck” it earns her.

All it takes is several pumps of Clarke’s wrist and a slow, circular lap of her tongue for Lexa’s hips to launch off the mattress. Entire body going rigid for the duration of a few glorious seconds while Clarke sucks at the hard bundle and rubs at the fluttering walls squeezing tight around her fingers.

And Lexa is _loud_.

Her cries reach such an ear-splitting crescendo that it makes Clarke equal measures proud and conscious about the thinness of the walls. It’s highly likely she might be fielding a few complaints from the neighbours in the morning, but she can’t bring herself to care.

Shivering through the aftershocks, Lexa flops back down, arms flung above her head as she tries to regulate her breathing. Clarke stretches out beside her, the tips of her fingers trailing over Lexa’s hip, drawing irregular shapes in the thin sheen of sweat that glistens on Lexa’s navel.

“Fuck,” Lexa says on an exhale. As if the fourth or fifth repetition of the expletive during her orgasm didn’t get the point across.

“Mhm.”

Clarke’s touch roams higher, travelling in a straight line between Lexa’s ribs, making a detour to trace over the tiny freckle under her right breast.

“You know,” Clarke says idly, “I thought you might have more stamina. Being an elite athlete and all.”

Lexa turns her head to stare at Clarke, frowning, a little pinch between her eyebrows that Clarke wants to kiss.

“But you came in 5 minutes.”

She has to clamp her lips together to suppress a laugh at the affront on Lexa’s face. Then Lexa’s eyes darken, something superior in the set of her features.

“Still 4.5 minutes longer than you lasted. And that’s even with the interruption from the cat.”

After a second of faux shocked silence, Clarke scoffs, pinching Lexa’s nipple, and Lexa retaliates by going for Clarke’s ticklish sides.

They tussle for a bit, giggling and rolling around, each trying to fend the other off, until Clarke finds herself with her wrists pinned to the mattress and Lexa bearing down on her, slim hips settled between her own.

It’s a position she can’t really complain about.

“Give up?”

“Never.”

Lexa rolls into her, a continuous slow grid, and Clarke draws her knees up to make more room.

“Guess I’ll have to wear you down.”

“I’m notoriously stubborn so good luck with tha—”

Lexa doesn’t let her finish, capturing her mouth in a languid kiss that soon turns fierce once Lexa tastes herself on Clarke’s tongue.

  
  
  


***

  
  


A loud squeak followed by a thump and a crash jerks Clarke out of her slumber.

She rears up, disoriented and groggy, shielding her bleary eyes from the rude shard of sunlight that nearly blinds her.

“Jesus Christ! What the fuck?”

She squints at the figure largely silhouetted by the light streaming through the curtains, forgetting to be annoyed for a moment while she drinks in the sight of Lexa: the wild mane of sex hair, the scattering of dark mouth-shaped bruises on her neck and chest and inner thighs (oops), the glow of her naked skin, and arousal stirs once more between Clarke’s legs. More so when she remembers how they’d traded orgasms long into the early hours, Lexa ably disproving Clarke’s accusations about lack of stamina and then some.

She dispels those thoughts, focusing instead on this inexplicable interruption to her sleep.

“Lexa? What—?”

Sheepishly, Lexa points in the direction of the bathroom. “We forgot about the cat.”

Clarke only blinks.

“He looks super angry so, um, maybe you should deal with that because I really need to pee.”

“Oh my God. Has anyone told you you’re ridiculous?” Clarke exclaims—not at all finding this strangely endearing, nope—as she throws back the sheets, ignoring the slight protest of pleasantly aching muscles.

(Lexa really did give her a workout but Clarke’s not about to admit it and feed that ego.)

She brushes past Lexa to investigate, only to discover Bellamy curled up in the sink, a foreboding glint in his yellow eyes.

Okay, he _does_ actually look like he’s plotting their untimely demise.

She rescues him from the bathroom and plonks him down on his favourite spot at the windowsill, leaving Lexa free to duck in and complete her business.

By the time Lexa emerges Clarke’s back under warm sheets, limbs loose and heavy, and eyes drifting shut. She feels the mattress dip beside her, the press of soft lips against her shoulder blade and the top of her spine, Lexa’s nose nuzzling the side of her neck.

Clarke hums and rolls over. She reaches out to tuck a few strands of tousled hair behind Lexa’s ear, keeping her fingers curled behind Lexa’s neck.

“What are your plans today?” Lexa asks through a small yawn, eyelids drooping. Clearly exhausted and trying valiantly to fight it.

It’s only now that Clarke appreciates the sleep-roughened quality of Lexa’s voice. And she likes it; she likes it very much.

Clarke cranes her neck to glance at the digital clock on the nightstand over Lexa’s shoulder. “Ugh. I have work in two hours.”

Lexa wriggles a little closer and Clarke detects the minty toothpaste on her breath. “I can’t talk you into playing hooky with me?”

“If only.”

Clarke shifts nearer too. Her hand slides down, stroking over Lexa’s shoulder, the smooth plane of her back, feeling the rise of goosebumps.

There’s nothing she wants more than to stay here, tangled up with Lexa, to enjoy the sunlight dappling over Lexa’s bare skin, to follow the tan lines with her hands and mouth. She wants naked cuddling. Sex. Sleep. Repeating that cycle for the rest of the day until they’re utterly spent.

Because she can’t stop touching.

Can’t stop smiling.

Can’t believe she has this girl in her bed.

(For however long that might be.)


	3. Chapter 3

Lexa tries to be as quiet as possible as she tiptoes towards the stairs, sneakers in hand. What she fails to account for is Anya’s near-supernatural hearing. 

“Didn’t see you at brekkie.”

Lexa grimaces before schooling her features. She pivots slowly to find Anya leaning against the living room doorjamb, arms folded and wearing an impassive expression. 

Racking her brain for a plausible excuse, only to come up short, Lexa grasps at the first thing that pops into mind. 

“I, um, went to buy almond milk. For my smoothies.”

Sharp eyes flick over Lexa, and Anya doesn’t need to comment on the conspicuous absence of dairy alternatives on Lexa’s person for her to flush slightly. The quirked eyebrow says it all.

“Huh. Pretty sure the fridge is already stocked… Unless Chrome Dome necked five cartons of the stuff overnight.”

Lexa rubs her nose. 

“Well, I thought I’d try a different brand. But the store was out, so.” 

She shrugs, too casually, aware that she’s straining the limits of credulity. It was the best she could do, considering she’s been in a daze since she left Clarke’s place. Between the lack of sleep, the mental and physical fatigue of competition taking its toll, and the dizzying kiss Clarke sent her off with as they said goodbye on the sidewalk, Lexa’s capacity for creative bullshitting has been severely diminished. 

Because her lips are still tingling and she can’t shake the memory of Clarke’s expression once they drew apart. How she looked like she was debating whether to reel Lexa back in for another, lengthier kiss. The reluctance to move out of Lexa’s personal space, the struggle to tear her gaze away from Lexa’s mouth, was written plainly across Clarke’s face.

And Lexa was charmed by all of it. The bright sparkling blue of those eyes in the early morning sunshine, and the pretty pink tint to Clarke’s cheeks, and—

Anya’s broad accent slices through Lexa’s reverie. “You’re a fucking terrible liar.”

She drags Lexa into the kitchen by the elbow. Sits her down at the table with a gentle shove and takes the seat opposite. Lexa’s so exhausted she allows it to happen without raising a single objection.

“If the sex glow and the fact you’re wearing yesterday’s clobber hadn’t already clued me in then the bloody great hickey on your neck would, you drongo.”

Lexa claps a hand over the bruise in question. _Fuck_. In her sleep-deprived state, she’d entirely forgotten about that. 

“So. What’s the verdict?”

“No.” Lexa recovers slightly, shaking her head. “No, no, _no_. We’re not doing this.”

“Aww, c’mon.”

“I’m not giving you any details!” Lexa says, exasperated. “Why are you so interested anyway? I never ask about your sex life. And, no, that wasn’t an invitation.”

Anya only shrugs, unfazed. “I like Clarke. She’s right... for a Pom.”

Coming from Anya, that’s high praise indeed. 

“I mean, she’s a sassy, smart blonde with knockers from outer space. I’d crack onto her myself if she wasn’t so into you.”

On some level, Lexa ought to be offended on Clarke’s behalf, but she can’t help preening a little. 

Because, yes, Clarke _was_ very much into her. 

All through the night and into the early hours of the morning. 

God, the way Clarke looked at her and touched her. Passionate and unrestrained for the first few rounds, then tender and slow as the hour crept closer to dawn. No less enthralled each time Lexa succumbed to her mouth and tongue and the slide of fingers.

It was more than fucking, _felt like_ more. A weight to Clarke’s gaze that made Lexa’s heart drum a staccato beat. Even now it’s giving her palpitations.

“Not to be a buzzkill while you’re floating on lezzo cloud nine, but is she aware you’re flying home on Sunday?”

“Actually, about that…”

Lexa traces a knot of wood on the surface of the table with her index finger, eyes lowered to avoid Anya’s flinty stare. 

“I’ve decided to stay in London for a couple more weeks. I want to see out my treatment plan here.”

“Treatment plan, my arse!” Anya scoffs. “Don’t come the raw prawn with me. You just wanna root Clarke.”

Lexa glances up, scowling at Anya’s crass remark. “I want to spend time with her. Get to know her. And so fucking what? This is the first time I’ve allowed myself to pursue someone since...” She presses her lips together and exhales through her nostrils. “Don’t I deserve it?”

“Christ, you’re actually serious about her.”

A firm nod. No hesitation. “I am.”

The fact is she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about what Clarke said, albeit in jest.

 _Maybe life should be about more than just tennis_.

Lexa threw away the chance of something once, years ago, in the belief that nothing took precedence over her ultimate goal: winning a Grand Slam title. Well, she’s achieved that accolade now, and while lifting that trophy in Melbourne was her greatest moment of triumph on the court, somehow it pales in comparison to making Clarke come twice in the space of as many minutes last night. 

“Look, you can tell me to mind my own bizzo, but I hope you’re not fixating on Clarke to avoid—”

“It isn’t about that.”

“Lex, I’ve known you since you were practically an ankle biter. You get bloody singular when you don’t wanna deal with your emotional shit.” Anya purses her lips. “All I’m saying is we’re here if you wanna talk. Me _and_ Curly.”

At the mere mention of Titus, Lexa’s mood sours and she doesn’t bother to hide her disdain.

“How long are you gonna stay aggro at him? In his own ham-fisted way, he was trying to protect you.”

“No, he was doing what he always does: overstepping; trying to dictate my life. _I_ decide who I want to see and when. _I_ decide who I want to invite to watch me train or play. And I shouldn’t have to listen to him bitch about it.” 

She huffs out a frustrated breath as her eyes cut away.

A thick silence descends before she adds, calmer, “Maybe it’s time to make a change.”

Anya looks at her with a level gaze. “I’m not trying to influence you either way, but I reckon you should take these two weeks to consider your options.” Her lips quirk. “That’s if you’re not too busy buffin’ the muffin with your new girlfriend.”

Lexa scowls again.

All the same, the casual use of “girlfriend” makes her heart leap up her throat, quietly giddy.

“Hey, so, if Tits McGee becomes a permanent fixture does that mean I get paid extra for babysitting her on match days?”

“I’ll pay you extra if you stop referring to her by that name.”

Anya appears to consider the offer. She shakes her head. “Yeah, nah. I’m getting way too much mileage out of it.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Clarke emerges from the treatment room, bidding a cheerful goodbye to her client, and that first glimpse of her smile acts like an adrenaline shot to Lexa, despite being directed at someone else. 

The butterflies that had been mostly dormant are back in full force; a whole swarm fluttering wildly below her ribs while she soaks in Clarke’s appearance, admiring the fit of the polo shirt pulled taut over Clarke’s chest and tucked into the waistband of the tailored slacks that hug the curve of her ass. She looks so unbelievably fucking attractive in that uniform without even trying, and Lexa doesn’t know how to deal with it now she has very detailed memories of Clarke stripping out of those clothes last night. Doesn’t know how she’s going to get through this session with Clarke’s hands on her, with the knowledge of what they’re capable of _doing_ to her. 

When Clarke spots her loitering in the waiting area, eyes making a quick sweep up the length of Lexa’s body, the _look_ she receives stops the air in Lexa’s lungs for a second, has warmth prickling across her skin and a dull ache flaring between her legs.

Clarke subtly inclines her head towards the room, a coy half-smile pulling at her mouth before she disappears inside.

Lexa follows, aware of the slight clamminess of her palms and wiping them discreetly on her track pants.

The door shuts behind her with a soft click and, before Lexa has advanced more than a couple of feet into the room, Clarke turns. An involuntary noise catches in Lexa’s throat to find Clarke suddenly standing so near. All bright blue eyes, and that freckle above her top lip, and the coconutty fragrance of the hand lotion she uses permeating the air. 

“Hi,” Clarke says on an exhale, gaze dropping briefly to Lexa’s mouth. 

When they make eye contact again, a tiny charge surges through Lexa. With it, the fluttery feeling in her stomach recedes. The nervous anticipation about seeing Clarke, being alone with her, the vague worry that things might somehow be awkward between them all melts away, replaced by a bloom of confidence. 

Lexa’s lips tilt up. “Hi, Doc.”

There’s a faint flush to Clarke’s cheeks as she gravitates a little closer until they’re almost touching. “Hi.” 

Lexa’s smile widens a fraction. “I think it’s safe to say we’ve mastered the basics of polite greetings, Clarke.”

The teasing earns her a swat to the stomach, a magnificently droll stare. Lexa captures Clarke’s hand, turning the palm over and pressing it flat against her sternum.

They share a look, and Lexa wonders if Clarke is able to detect the fast knock of her heartbeat through the barrier of clothing. 

“I _was_ going to give you a much nicer hello,” Clarke retorts, “but I’m not sure you deserve it if you’re going to be so cheeky.”

“I’ll behave,” Lexa says with a faux solemn nod, doing her best to tamp down on a grin. “Sorry, ma’am.”

One brow arches. There’s a glint in Clarke’s eyes and her lips twitch as she struggles to hide her own amusement at being called _ma’am_.

“Perhaps I can overlook your uncouth manners this once.” A beat. “Since you’re from the Colonies.”

Between the hammy delivery and ‘the Colonies’, Lexa nearly snorts.

“Although I’m not entirely convinced of your remorse, Miss Woods.”

“What can I do to prove my sincerity?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

The hand on Lexa’s chest moves, trailing along her shoulder then curling around her neck. Clarke leans against her, the soft give of curves moulding themselves to Lexa’s more lanky frame. There isn’t an inch between their bodies and Lexa isn’t sure she can keep up this charade much longer. Not when she’s seriously calculating the cost-benefit ratio of picking Clarke up and carrying her to the exam table. It might twinge her thigh again but the trade-off would be worth it.

“I have a few ideas already,” Lexa says lowly. 

Her hands go to Clarke’s waist, seconds later roaming around to slide over the swell of her ass. The soft gasp Clarke lets out when Lexa takes hold lifts the hairs on the back of her neck.

“Such as?” Huskier. 

Clarke’s eyes rove across Lexa’s features, straying to her mouth once more. The fingers resting against Lexa’s nape flex, a subtle encouragement. As if she needs it.

Lexa wets her lips and whispers beside Clarke’s ear, “How about I show you?”

But it’s Clarke who moves first, grabbing Lexa’s cheeks to guide her into a kiss. The immediate introduction of tongue makes Lexa groan into the heated space of Clarke’s mouth, and she greedily accepts it when Clarke licks into her, a momentary tease that has her gripping Clarke’s ass tighter, pulling her closer.

“I’ve been so distracted all day,” Clarke murmurs against Lexa’s lips. She changes the angle of the kiss, strokes fingertips over Lexa’s cheekbones, across her jaw, down the sides of her neck. “Thinking about kissing you, touching you.”

Heat floods Lexa’s lower abdomen, her cheeks, the tips of her ears. 

“Yeah?”

A slow nod. Clarke traps Lexa’s bottom lip gently between her teeth before releasing it. She nudges into another meeting of mouths, swallowing the needy little sound that escapes from Lexa’s throat. 

When Lexa pulls back to look at Clarke several minutes later, she’s gratified to discover flushed skin and blown pupils, lips red and swollen from kissing. It makes her want to swoop in again, press Clarke up against the door, and forget about everything outside their little bubble.

“You were on my mind, too,” Lexa confesses.

She’d lain awake in bed this morning, counting down the hours until she could see Clarke again, too wired and restless to nap for long.

She leans in with intent, only for Clarke to avoid her descending lips. Forehead lined. Dark blonde brows pulled together in a frown. 

“Did you manage to sleep at all?”

“Some. But every time I closed my eyes I kept replaying certain moments from last night in my head.”

“Lexa,” Clarke says disapprovingly, despite the darkening pink hue of her cheeks. “Ensuring you get enough rest is an important part of the recovery process. It’s during the sleep cycle that the body repairs damaged muscle tissue.”

Lexa bobs her head, heavy gaze stuck on Clarke’s lips. Particularly fascinated by that tiny freckle.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Mhm.” 

Well, she’s half-listening. Mostly she’s just letting Clarke’s words wash over her, delighted by the exasperated tone. Completely enamoured by the peevish furrow between Clarke’s eyebrows and the thin downtown of her mouth, how it lends her an uncanny resemblance to a certain famously surly-looking feline. 

“Rest. Repair.” Lexa bites her lip, a useless attempt to rein in a smile. “Has anyone ever told you how cute you are when you’re annoyed?”

“Don’t try to flatter me with that American charm.”

“Why? Is it working?”

Clarke only glares and slips out of her grasp, much to Lexa’s disappointment. She backs away, pointing a finger at Lexa. “And don’t give me that pout either.” She indicates towards the exam table and with a small huff, Lexa dutifully goes. “How’s your hamstring?”

“Some tightness. A little sore,” Lexa says. “Although I’m not sure the injury is entirely to blame.”

She holds Clarke’s stare as she toes off her sneakers and shoves the track pants down her legs. Feels a little surge of satisfaction when Clarke’s jaw drops slightly before she clamps it shut and clenches her fists at her sides. Dark, dark eyes trail up Lexa’s bare legs, pausing over the twin bruises near the tops of Lexa’s inner thighs and the booty shorts that sit low on her hips. 

Lexa boosts herself up onto the table and waits, the corner of her mouth ticking up. A smirk that grows as Clarke drifts towards her slowly, taking small measured steps until she’s standing in front of Lexa, occupying the space between Lexa’s knees. Eyes lidded. Breath coming in shallow puffs as she takes hold of the zip of the track jacket.

“To make you more comfortable,” Clarke says, as if she needs the flimsy justification. They both know it’s a lie.

She drags the zip down and Lexa hears the quiet breath Clarke sucks in when she discovers Lexa’s only wearing a sports bra underneath. Watches as Clarke catalogues the marks on her torso, the discolouration made all the more obvious under the bright ceiling spotlights. Using the soft pad of her pointer finger Clarke traces the outline of a large hickey on Lexa’s collarbone and Lexa shivers into it.

Then she notices the consternation on Clarke’s face, the apology forming on her lips. 

Lexa preempts, “Hey, it’s okay.”

“It’s not. I got completely carried away. What if you had a photoshoot or a public appearance or—”

“But I didn’t. In case you weren’t paying attention, Clarke, I was enjoying it.” She drops her voice and leans forward; waggles her eyebrows. “For the record, that reputation you Brits have for being prudish is totally undeserved. I mean, I wasn’t expecting you to be such an enthusiastic biter...”

Another dark look flashes in Clarke’s eyes, even while her cheeks flush with colour once again. She purses her lips and taps at Lexa’s shoulder. 

“Just lie down, smartarse. Let me take a look at that leg.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


For the most part, Lexa fulfils her promise to behave while Clarke takes her through physical therapy. They share a few significant looks during the stretches but Lexa manages to keep her vocalisations to a minimum (mostly). If Clarke is flustered by the odd noise that slips out, she covers it well.

Before their time is up Clarke brings out the Tens Unit, carefully attaching the electrode patches to the underside of Lexa’s thigh along the lateral hamstring. And all Lexa can think is that the gentle buzzing sensations, the pulses that tingle pleasantly across the surface of her skin, don’t hold a candle to what’s going on inside her when she’s with Clarke.

She’d love to say it’s just the release of endorphins from the electrical stimulus making her dopey. Or the attentiveness with which Clarke monitors her, how Clarke touches her with soft reassurance in between the tiny controlled shocks from the machine.

But the truth is... Lexa is smitten.

By the end of the treatment, she feels lighter than air, a lazy smile on her lips as Clarke helps her turn over and up into a sitting position. 

“How are you feeling now?”

“Like I want to steal you away from here.“

“I meant your injury,” is Clarke’s dry response, hands coming to rest on Lexa’s kneecaps, but her eyes are shining. “You have a one-track mind.”

“That’s what makes a champion, or so I’m told,” Lexa shrugs and reaches for Clarke, drawing her in by the waist without any resistance.

“Well, you’re in luck.” Clarke moves a loose strand of hair off Lexa’s face and lets her touch linger. “Barring any emergencies, this is my last appointment of the tournament. I’m all yours.” 

It’s all the invitation Lexa needs to tug Clarke closer. Kissing her slowly, sweetly, getting lost in it as if they have all the time in the world—which for the next two weeks, they do.

When they separate, Clarke’s eyes remain shut and she sways on her feet a little bit. Then her lids flutter open and Lexa thinks she could easily fall into that endless blue. 

“I need fifteen minutes to tidy up,” Clarke says, the scratchiness of her voice more evident than before. “Meet me in the cafeteria?”

Lexa nods, leaning in to reconnect their lips and Clarke dodges it with a husky laugh and a smile that widens once she sees Lexa’s pout.

“Oh, stop that. The sooner you let me go, the sooner we can leave.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


It occurs to Lexa too late what she’s walked into, as soon as a hush descends and every pair of eyes swivels from the match on the enormous projection screen to the newcomer instead. The packed cafeteria is silent except for the commentary by Chris Evert and Tracy Austin, the resounding smack of the ball as it meets racket, the oohs and ahhs of the spectators in thrall to the intense rally playing out on Centre Court.

Lexa girds her jaw and finds an empty seat at the back, ignoring the pitying/curious stares long enough for everyone to return their attention to the game Ontari’s currently winning 30-40. She’s one set up, trailing 3-5 in the second, but it looks like her opponent, Gaia Washington, is fading fast if the double fault on her next serve is any indication.

Much as Lexa hates to see Ontari prevail, she can’t look away. Has to feel some measure of grudging admiration for the way her nemesis controls the court, utterly ruthless in her exploitation of Washington’s fatigue and weakening backhand. 

Ontari takes the subsequent game within minutes to bring the set level, feeding off her opponent’s growing recklessness and demoralisation, an ugly twist of a smirk on her face while Washington argues the point with the umpire. 

Just the sight of Ontari’s smug expression fills Lexa with pure, unadulterated loathing. And that’s how Clarke finds her, teeth clenched and quietly seething while Ontari drives another screaming volley down the line, the ball narrowly avoiding a line judge who has to leap out of its deadly trajectory.

“... ready to go?” 

A touch to her shoulder makes Lexa jump, startled, and she tears her eyes away from the match only to let out a strangled little noise of surprise.

She stares; speechless. Jaw slack, throat gone dry. Eyes raking slowly over Clarke from head to toe and back again.

Clarke, who’s changed out of her uniform into a polka dot sundress and peep-toe wedges. And Lexa wasn’t ready for any of what she’s seeing. Not the halter neck that shows off Clarke’s shoulders and, Jesus, _so much_ cleavage; or the very flattering A-line silhouette that accentuates Clarke’s waist and the flare of her hips; or her hair, loose and tousled, that Lexa wants to tangle her hands in; or the shapely bare legs that draw her eyes up, up.

Lexa remembers those legs wrapped around her in the early hours; recalls getting herself off on Clarke’s thigh; pushing Clarke’s legs apart and settling on her stomach between them. How Clarke’s calves trembled under Lexa’s hands as she arched off the bed and into Lexa’s mouth...

There’s a knowing quirk to Clarke’s lips, like every dirty thought Lexa is having is being transmitted loud and clear. “Lexa?”

Lexa blinks and shakes her head, but her response is drowned out by whoops and hollers in the cafeteria and ecstatic applause from the match spectators as Ontari takes the lead.

Both glance towards the projection screen and Clarke looks stricken once she realises what the commotion is about.

“Oh, shit. Lexa, I’m sorry. If I’d known…”

“It’s alright.” 

Lexa offers a tight smile as she evades Clarke’s gaze, feeling suddenly too exposed in this room full of mostly strangers, some of whom are watching her again with renewed interest. It’s as if they’re waiting for an adverse reaction, like she’s going to flip a table or have a meltdown or something equally dramatic. As an impetuous teenager starting out on the pro circuit she might once have indulged them but she’s long since learned to control such rash impulses, both on and off the court. 

So she draws in a short breath and expels it before standing. Tucking away the bitter thoughts still swirling about Ontari, not willing to let them put a dampener on things. She jams her hands into the pockets of her track pants and attempts a brighter smile. “Could we just get out of here?”

“Of course,” Clarke says, but the little wrinkle of worry on her brow, a shade of doubt in her eyes remains. “Are you hungry?”

“Always.”

“How do you feel about Thai?”

The loud gurgle of Lexa’s stomach is answer enough. 

Clarke loops her arm through Lexa’s, unbothered by the several more pairs of eyes looking their way now.

“Come on, then. Before you waste away to nothing.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


In the end, they pick up takeout en route to Clarke’s flat, despite Lexa’s repeated assurances that she doesn’t mind eating at the restaurant, even though she isn’t exactly dressed for it. When Clarke throws her a look that says she isn’t buying it for a second, this brave front Lexa’s putting on for the sake of appearances, Lexa relents with a small grateful smile.

And with it, her fondness grows tenfold.

She clutches Clarke’s hand a little tighter, lacing their fingers together, stomach flipping pleasantly when Clarke squeezes back with equal pressure.

It isn’t until they reach Clarke’s door that Lexa remembers about the cat and the blissful feeling she’s been riding on evaporates.

She enters cautiously, eyes scanning the tiny studio apartment, half expecting a hostile ball of fur to launch himself at her. She spots Bellamy lounging on a luxurious chaise longue cat bed, stretched out with his paws crossed daintily in front of him. He picks up his head at this trespasser in his realm and fixes Lexa with a baleful yellow stare. 

“Make yourself comfy on the couch,” Clarke says as she hustles into the kitchen space. “I’ll warm some plates so we can at least be a tad more civilised while we’re pigging out.”

“Can I help with anything?”

“No,” Clarke insists as she shoos Lexa away with one hand. “Sit. Relax. Would you like something to drink?”

“Mineral water, if you have any please.”

While Clarke is busy—fetching dinner plates, popping them into the microwave for a minute, unpacking the takeout cartons from the polythene bag onto the counter—Lexa takes stock of Bellamy once more.

She squares her shoulders. Steels herself. Approaches him with careful steps, determined to prove that she’s not a threat to his charmed existence. She’s going to befriend this damn cat one way or another, because if Anya ever learnt that Lexa’s rival for Clarke’s affections is a cantankerous feline then she’d never live it down. 

She slowly, _slowly_ extends her hand, showing her benign intent to stroke him. Before she gets within a foot of the chaise, Bellamy’s ears flatten and he bares his teeth in a sudden hiss, that one snaggletooth glinting menacingly in the sunlight streaming through the blinds.

Lexa retracts her arm in an instant, shrinking back.

“Don’t mind Mr Grumpypants over there. He hates everyone; it’s nothing personal,” Clarke says, having to raise her voice above the loud hum of the microwave. She passes a glass to Lexa; watches her take a sip. “Even with me he’s only affectionate on his own terms, _and_ I have the scratch marks to prove it.”

Lexa’s mouth twists. “So did you just, like, walk into the animal shelter and say ‘give me the meanest, grouchiest fuck you have’?”

That earns a short laugh. Clarke glances towards Bellamy then back to Lexa. “I know it’s hard to believe but he was so adorable as a kitten. All fluff and huge cartoon eyes.”

“And now he’s a beast. Was it a Gremlins-type situation where you fed him after midnight and this,” Lexa gestures towards Bellamy, “was the end result?”

The shrill double beep of the microwave timer pierces through the apartment and, with a rueful look, Clarke pivots to start dishing up the food from the containers. She piles their plates high with sticky jasmine rice, green lamb curry, and their sides of vegetable spring rolls and sweet pork dumplings. Brings them over to the coffee table, along with two sets of cutlery, returning briefly to the kitchen to grab a cold beer for herself from the fridge.

Once they’re seated beside each other on the couch, Clarke hesitates before she digs in. “Are you sure this is alright? My postage stamp-sized flat is hardly the glitz and glamour you must be used to.”

Lexa looks at her. Solemn; serious. “None of that matters to me, Clarke. I’m just happy to be here with you.” An impish smile flickers across her lips. “And your demon cat, I guess.”

Clarke gasps in mock outrage but she angles closer, bare knee brushing against Lexa’s. Lexa feels the warmth even through the fabric of the track pants. 

“Bell’s sensitive to criticism. You’ll hurt his feelings”

“Anyway, I like your place,” Lexa deflects, casting her gaze around.

She hadn’t had much opportunity to examine the surroundings last night—for obvious reasons—but now she’s able to take in the little touches that mark this place as Clarke’s; the mementoes of her travels on the mantelpiece; the photographs on the walls; the colourful, eclectic miscellany of clutter on the shelves of the bookcase. Small as it is, the apartment is bright and cosy and _lived in_. A stark contrast to the austere minimalism of Lexa’s home in Miami, where she only spends four months of the year (at most) during the off-season and between tournaments.

“It’s… yours,” she adds with a shrug. “Plus, it’s only about six feet from the couch to the bed.”

Which is the kind of spatial efficiency Lexa can appreciate. 

“What makes you think I’m going to sleep with you? You insulted my son a minute ago.”

Lexa leans a little closer, noting how Clarke stares at her lips for a couple of seconds too long before her eyes snap back up. Hazy with desire. Pupils dilated.

“Who said anything about sleep?” Lexa responds smartly, spearing a dumpling on her fork and popping it into her mouth. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


When Clarke moves to clear their empty plates away, Lexa catches her wrist, tugging her gently back down onto the couch. 

“Leave those. I’ll do the dishes.”

Blonde brows pull together. “Lexa, no. You’re a guest.”

“I didn’t actually mean right this second.”

“Oh,” Clarke breathes out.

“Yeah,” Lexa says, a slow grin taking shape as Clarke settles more comfortably against the cushions. Lexa shifts around to face her, scooting across the divide between them.

The moment stretches, quietly charged, while Clarke’s eyes flit between Lexa’s before dipping lower to her mouth again. 

Without another word Clarke reaches out to gather a handful of the front of Lexa’s track jacket. To pull her the rest of the way until Lexa has to brace one arm along the back of the couch, other hand coming to rest on Clarke’s thigh where the sundress has ridden up.

“I like this on you,” Lexa says. Her fingers twitch against smooth skin, eager to explore. But she waits, something thrilling in the knowledge that they have all night and nowhere to be tomorrow. 

“I bet you thought my wardrobe consisted entirely of polo shirts.”

Lexa’s palm shifts a little higher and Clarke’s breath catches. The grasp on the track jacket tightens perceptibly. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m also a fan of those.”

Lexa drops her gaze briefly to the vicinity of the cleavage she couldn’t help but admire earlier.

“I’ve noticed. Even the footballers are less obvious.”

Lexa only laughs quietly; unrepentant.

Blue eyes twinkle. “You’re lucky I fancy you a bit more than them.”

They’re close enough now that Lexa is able to detect the faint hoppiness of the beer on Clarke’s breath, can almost feel the curve of Clarke’s smile. All Lexa would need to do is dip her chin a fraction and they’d be kissing.

Instead, she rears back an inch. “Excuse me? A bit! You came, like, six times last night.”

“Always need that ego stroked, don’t you?”

“I’d rather you stroked something el—fuck!”

Lexa startles at the dark looming shape that appears in her peripheral vision, scrambling off Clarke so hastily she nearly falls off the couch. 

That fucking _cat_. 

He’s sitting on the arm, chest puffed out, grooming the back of his paw and staring Lexa down.

And Clarke, Clarke’s looking at Lexa like she’s lost her damn mind. Honestly, maybe she has a little. Because even she recognises that she’s not behaving in a rational manner.

“He spooked me,” she defends, cheeks growing warm.

With an eye roll, Clarke pushes Bellamy off the couch, to his vocal complaint, and reels Lexa back in. “You have _got_ to get over this fear of my cat if we’re—while you’re here.”

Lexa grumbles, “I’m not afraid, Clarke. I was just... caught off guard. For something so rotund he’s a stealthy little shit.”

Wary, she watches Bellamy strut back towards his chaise, circling the plush bedding a few times before he curls up. 

A hand sliding across her jaw brings Lexa’s attention back to Clarke. 

“Ignore him.” Clarke strokes the sensitive patch of skin behind Lexa’s ear, and she smirks at the shiver it elicits. “Remind me how much you like this dress.”

Lexa lets her eyes drift down Clarke’s torso again, following the v of the halter neck and drinking in the abundance of pale skin. When Lexa glances up, it’s to find Clarke’s eyes dark and hooded, bottom lip snared between her teeth. The gleam of open hunger in Clarke’s stare makes Lexa’s pulse race, sends a little shock of excitement down her spine.

“Much as I do _love_ this dress…” Lexa says, palm skating along Clarke’s thigh. She nudges under the hem, moves her hand up slowly, mouth ticking up at the corners at Clarke’s soft noise of encouragement. “I like what’s beneath it even mo—” 

She expects to graze the edge of underwear as her fingertips sweep along the top of Clarke’s thigh. But there’s nothing, only uninterrupted skin, and Lexa inhales sharply at the discovery.

Clarke eyes her; waiting. 

And Lexa’s thrown. Wholly unprepared for the visceral rush of heat that courses through her body when Clarke’s legs fall a little further open and Lexa’s middle finger brushes against coarse hair. Someone whimpers—possibly Lexa herself—as her finger trails an inch lower, dipping into wetness. 

Clarke releases her trapped lip, voice a husky, sultry murmur as she holds Lexa’s heavy-lidded stare. “I told you I’d been thinking about you.”

“God, Clarke, you’re...”

 _Soaking_. 

Lexa’s chest inflates with a warm feeling, the sort of pride and exhilaration she normally associates with wrong-footing an opponent or executing a killer smash. She regards Clarke; taking in the flush building on her cheeks, the shallow rise and fall of her chest, the flutter of mascara-coated lashes. To be the cause of this reaction feels like a small victory of its own.

A pleased little grin returns to her face. Her fingers drift, skimming over Clarke, a barely-there touch. Hips arch off the couch, chasing the contact, and Lexa’s smile widens as she retreats. 

Clarke growls in warning, a flash of impatience in her expression. 

And Lexa hardly has a second to revel in it before Clarke is shoving her back against the opposite arm of the couch and crawling into her lap. Only has time to pull in a short gulp of air before Clarke crashes their lips together.

It’s a frenzy. All teeth and tongue and Lexa does her best to keep up, her hands splayed wide over Clarke’s sides. Quickly sliding down to grab at Clarke’s ass. Within seconds hiking the dress up to reach the bare skin underneath and giving a firm knead. The resulting groan Clarke releases into Lexa’s open mouth makes arousal flood the pit of her stomach and she matches it with a throaty sound of her own.

“Have you been going commando all day?” Lexa mumbles into the kiss, tipping her head the other way and attempting to catch Clarke’s mouth again.

Clarke draws away to meet Lexa’s eyes, blown pupils undermining the reproachful pinch of her brows. 

“Lexa. I used to work for the NHS, the most respected universal healthcare system in the world, with some of the highest standards of professional conduct. Of course not.” She leans in again. Nips at Lexa’s bottom lip then soothes it with a slow swipe of her tongue. “I stuffed my knickers in my handbag after I got changed.”

The word ‘knickers’ shouldn’t sound so hot but coming from Clarke, it does. Maybe it’s the accent, or maybe it’s the fact Clarke has _the_ sexiest voice Lexa’s ever heard. Clarke could read aloud the dullest sections of the WTA rulebook and Lexa would still be uncomfortably turned on.

“Well, I should thank you for your foresight. The dress _and_ the lack of underwear.” 

She pulls Clarke tighter against her body, eliminating the last gap between them. Noses along Clarke’s jaw, presses her lips to the subtly perfumed skin of Clarke’s throat and breathes her in. Lexa can’t get enough of the scent and it only serves to fuel her craving for more. 

“Thank me later,” Clarke husks, rocking her pelvis down meaningfully into Lexa’s lap. “I have other plans for that mouth of yours.”

She kisses Lexa again. Licks inside and Lexa is putty in her hands, melting into the stroke of Clarke’s tongue. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


Nothing in her gay life to date could’ve prepared Lexa for this.

Clarke, kneeling astride her and riding up on her stomach; the wet, hot drag of _Clarke_ over tensed abdominal muscles; the smooth glide back and forth, quickly building up a rhythm that has Clarke’s tits bouncing and sweat beading across her collarbones.

It’s hypnotic.

Lexa’s mind is like mush. 

All she can do is clutch at Clarke’s hips to help her along. 

Because the slick sounds, the hitching breaths, the soft scratch of hair, that hooded stare while Clarke watches her, teeth digging into her bottom lip, is compromising Lexa’s higher brain function. 

She keeps glancing down to the join of their bodies; catching glimpses of the reddened protrusion of Clarke’s clit, the glistening slickness that paints her own abs. The sight makes Lexa ache, has her squeezing her thighs together, fingers tightening around the jut of Clarke’s hip bones.

She feels close to unravelling from this alone, overwhelmed by the way Clarke moves against her. Primal. Untethered from inhibition. When Clarke begins to rock down with greater urgency, the jog of her hips quickening, a small pinch of concentration forming between her brows, Lexa can’t stifle the groan that slips out. 

It’s only a matter of moments before Clarke stiffens, before her body pulls taut and her head tips back, mouth falling open in a silent exaltation. Then she’s arching; shuddering; a low, broken moan working its way up her throat as her hips stutter once, twice, three times against the contraction of Lexa’s muscles. With a high gasp, Clarke sways forward, grabbing for Lexa’s wrists at the last second to keep herself upright.

And it’s the most incredible thing, watching Clarke break. Lexa didn’t think anything could top the time she saw Serena destroy someone in two sets without dropping a single game at Flushing Meadows, but nothing is more breathtaking than Clarke in this moment: the pink flush that covers her upper chest and neck and the apples of her cheeks; the hazy, unfocused gleam of her eyes; the wild toss of blonde hair that’s fallen into her face; the bright, dewy glow of her sunlit skin.

Lexa is incapable of containing her awe. “You are so beautiful,” she whispers.

Her heart is beating double-time, powered by an emotion that seems too vast, too early to name. Even so, she feels it. Expanding. Filling all the spaces between her ribs when Clarke smiles at her, a small lopsided grin that makes Lexa’s stomach flutter madly and her heart pound harder.

Clarke digs a hand through her hair, sweeps it away from her cheek, and Lexa notices the slight tremble of her fingers. Perhaps it’s just a residual effect of the orgasm or maybe… maybe Lexa isn’t alone in feeling like she’s simultaneously floating on air and free falling through the sky without a parachute. 

Not that she has time to ponder it when Clarke eases down onto her forearms, distracting Lexa with the crush of her body, their breasts and stomachs sliding together. The press of all that soft skin stokes Lexa’s desire and she’s powerless to hold back a whimper of need.

Clarke’s lips find her jaw, travelling across to the edge of an earlobe. “I’ve wanted to do that since you took me out for that horrible smoothie. Maybe before. Maybe since you walked into my treatment room that first day with a mouth full of attitude.”

Despite her agitated state, Lexa laughs. She strokes up the length of Clarke’s spine, savouring the little undulating shiver it earns, her palms finally curving around Clarke’s shoulder blades. 

“I’m relieved all those years of training paid off, then,” Lexa says, voice cracking on the last word when Clarke gently bites at the hinge of her jaw. “I’d hate to think the thousands of crunches and sit-ups I’ve done at the gym were for nothing.”

“Hmm. They weren’t.” Clarke kisses along the underside of Lexa’s jaw and Lexa tips her chin to allow easier access. “In fact, allow me to demonstrate my sincere appreciation.” More kisses down her throat. “For your dedication.” Light suction at the pulse point has Lexa swallowing down a moan. “To developing those outstanding obliques.”

“I guess that would be okay.” Lexa strives for nonchalance and fails, because Clarke’s mouth dismantles her self-control so completely.

Another moan trips out as Clarke licks into the hollow between Lexa’s clavicles, before pushing up onto her palms to shimmy further down the bed. 

The loss of full body contact draws a soft whine of protest from Lexa, but the noise soon dies in her throat. Once Clarke wraps her lips around a nipple and sucks hard, Lexa can only arch into the wet heat of Clarke’s mouth. She feels the deep pull all the way down to her clit, a hot pulse that sets her hips in motion, uselessly humping at air.

“Clarke,” Lexa gasps when the erect tip is released, only for teeth to sink into the soft underside of her breast a second later.

Her fingers weave into the tangle of Clarke’s hair, tugging at her scalp to gain her attention. But Clarke just scatters kisses across Lexa’s sternum to reach the neglected opposite nipple, dark eyes locking on Lexa’s as she runs slow circles around the areola with the flat of her tongue, narrowing to a precise twirl around the peak.

“Clarke,” Lexa tries again, struggling to keep her eyes open now. “Please.”

Between the swirl of Clarke’s tongue, the little hum that leaks from the back of Clarke’s throat as she tugs and licks and scrapes the edge of her teeth over one nipple, then the other, switching between the two until they’re both brought to stiff, aching points, Lexa’s beyond caring how desperate she sounds. Because this _need_ for Clarke burns under her skin like a fever and she isn’t above begging. 

“Soon,” Clarke murmurs into the fleshy part of Lexa’s boob, veering away to plant open-mouthed kisses down the centre of her torso. “You Yanks, always in such a hurry.”

Lexa cranes her neck, tucks her chin down so she can watch Clarke’s descent, mapping a haphazard path towards her navel. 

“Says the girl who mounted me on the couch because she couldn’t wait,” Lexa says, an audible waver in her voice as Clarke licks a wet stripe over twitching muscles.

The look Clarke sends up Lexa’s body has her toes curling into the sheets, and she lets loose a shaky groan once she realises Clarke is cleaning up the sticky mess she made earlier.

It’s more than Lexa can bear. 

She pushes at the crown of Clarke’s head, trying to direct Clarke further south. Feels the ticklish breeze of laughter, the stretch of Clarke’s smile against her skin, the little nip Clarke gives just to the side of her belly button that makes Lexa’s abs jump and a whimper escape her parted lips.

“Clar—“

She breaks off with a gasp when Clarke swoops down, and she’s suddenly engulfed by the hot press of Clarke’s wide open mouth. Her hips roll into it, seeking more. Hands slide under her ass, grabbing, pulling her flush against Clarke’s lips. Clarke’s tongue sweeps up the length of her, circling the swollen bud at the apex, and Lexa’s hardly conscious of the choked noises spilling from her mouth, the breathless repetition of Clarke’s name as the woman between her legs works her up until Lexa’s trembling under every flick, every lap, every swirl. 

She only lasts as long as Clarke slipping her fingers inside, a few measured thrusts and the fast-slow alternation of Clarke’s tongue, before her back bows and her eyes slam shut. She shudders through the climax, squeezing tight around Clarke’s trapped fingers, and Clarke moans her approval against Lexa. The vibration makes her shake harder, hips lifting off the bed to chase the tail end of the orgasm as it tapers off.

That only seems to galvanise Clarke. She withdraws her hand but doesn’t cease the exploration of lips and tongue, avoiding the too-sensitive tip of Lexa’s clit, drawing lazy circuits around it, weaving lower to gather up the spill at Lexa’s opening, teasing inside. 

Each time Clarke dips into her, Lexa twitches and bucks. 

Every ragged sigh exhaled into her skin has her squirming, twisting against the sheets. 

Once Clarke returns to her clit, Lexa’s hips begin to rock anew. 

The fingers lodged in Clarke’s hair tighten, keeping her in place while Lexa grinds down jerkily on the flat, firm glide of a skilled tongue. 

And when their eyes meet and hold, when she sees the blissed-out expression on Clarke’s face and the friction gets Lexa just right, she can’t cling on a second longer.

  
  
  


***

  
  


In the aftermath, the room is stifling, almost unbearably humid, and the breeze that stirs through the open windows only brings with it more heat. There’s a river of sweat at the base of Lexa’s spine, and the damp, rumpled sheets stick to her bare skin. Limbs loose and heavy, she feels more sapped of energy than she does following a gruelling three-set match. 

She wouldn’t trade a second of it for anything, not even functioning air-con.

Because Clarke is glued to her side, one leg thrown over Lexa’s, nose tucked into the crook where neck meets shoulder. Breathing deep and slow in a way that makes Lexa suspect Clarke is dozing. Lexa’s arm is numb, trapped beneath Clarke, fingertips tingling with pins and needles, but she doesn’t have the heart to move. Instead, she presses her lips to Clarke’s temple, unable to corral a smile when Clarke mumbles something unintelligible.

“Hmm?”

With a quiet groan, Clarke peels her body away, rolling onto her back. She blows out a breath and drapes her forearm across her brow. “God, you’re like a furnace.”

“Sorry. High metabolism.”

Clarke’s half-lidded eyes wander down Lexa’s torso, pausing at her breasts before following the slope of her ribs down to the sculpted v-line of her lower abdomen. Lexa stretches, basking under the attention. She isn’t a narcissist but she’s worked hard to attain this physique; she’s proud of it; and if Clarke wants to objectify her a little (or a lot), then Lexa’s going to enjoy every moment and maybe show off a bit.

“Mmm. You’re all sinewy muscle and long, glowing legs. Sun-kissed everywhere except for your boobs and that bright white bum.” Clarke snags her bottom lip briefly between her teeth. “It’s a perfect full moon.”

Lexa gives a shy little laugh. Warmth spreads up her neck and into her cheeks. “You like that, huh?”

“I do,” Clarke nods. She turns onto her side once more and Lexa mirrors the position. “I like that I’m the only person who gets to see those tan lines. For the time being, anyway.”

Lexa wriggles closer until they’re sharing the same pillow. She reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind Clarke’s ear and lets her fingers sift through blonde tresses. 

“How about for two weeks and… then we’ll see?” 

Wide blue eyes search Lexa’s face, presumably checking for some sign that she’s not serious. But she looks at Clarke steadily, earnestly.

“You’re really staying? But what about—”

“I’ve been competing and training non-stop for the past five years. I could use a break. Some time to recharge and figure out my next steps.” Her fingers still, and she moves to cup the curve of Clarke’s jaw in her palm. “London is as good a place as any to do that.” 

Lexa holds Clarke’s gaze before she adds, softer, “Better, in fact, because you’re here.”

Clarke nestles closer. Reaches out to idly trail her fingertips up and down Lexa’s arm, goosebumps erupting across her skin.

“Is this going to cause trouble with Titus?”

“Let me worry about him.”

Clarke purses her lips; unconvinced. “Lexa…”

“Could we talk about something else?” Lexa gives a slight smile. “Discussing my overbearing coach is kind of a mood killer.”

Clarke stares for a beat, then, “We don’t have to talk at all.”

Slowly, Lexa’s smile spreads. She leverages up onto one elbow and Clarke’s arm snakes around to encircle her waist, to pull Lexa nearer. They’re all grins when they meet in a clumsy bump of lips, both laughing as they readjust and catch each other’s mouths again. Unhurried. Taking each second, each shared breath and swallowed sigh and allowing it to stretch. 

The kiss builds at a languid pace, minutes elapsing before Clarke coaxes Lexa into a heated slide of tongues. The intensity of it leaves her shaking, a tight band of pressure squeezing below her ribs with every expansion and contraction of her lungs. 

She threads her fingers into Clarke’s hair. Angles in deeper. Sinks into the heavenly curves of Clarke’s body. 

And in her mind, she questions how two weeks of this could ever be enough.

  
  
  


***

  
  


The estimated ten minute wait time to get a table on the rooftop terrace doesn’t faze Lexa in the slightest.

Not when she’s standing in line beside Clarke and a hand slips into her own. Not when Clarke leans against Lexa’s shoulder while she rhapsodises about the café’s speciality scrambled eggs with chorizo and shallots that “seriously, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried.”

Lexa pays no mind to the lively chatter going on around them, the scrape of cutlery, the persistent frothy blast of the baristas operating the milk steamer. Her awareness has narrowed only to Clarke. Too busy watching Clarke’s mouth as she speaks; too attuned to the soft press of Clarke’s palm and how their fingers slot together perfectly; captivated by Clarke’s face and the cadence of her voice and her _presence_. 

Lexa takes in every aspect, from the tortoiseshell-frame wayfarer sunglasses perched atop Clarke’s head to the Superdry v-neck tee and the couple of inches of cleavage it affords. The stonewashed denim skirt. Bare legs and scuffed Vans and a tote bag tucked into Clarke’s side. So damn pretty that Lexa’s not even remotely sorry about how much she’s staring.

All she wants is to have Clarke closer, taste the watermelon lip balm Clarke applied before they left the apartment, see if she can’t provoke that raspy little groan she enjoys the sound of so much.

And, judging by the smirk on her lips, Clarke must read Lexa’s intentions. 

In her defence, Lexa’s hardly alone in broadcasting her thirst. 

As soon as she emerged from the bathroom wearing this borrowed tank, Clarke had stepped up to her and yanked her into a kiss so filthy it almost convinced her they didn’t need to leave bed for sustenance after all. Even now Clarke’s eyes keep straying to Lexa’s shoulders and collarbones and the glimpse of black sports bra where the shirt hangs loose below the armpits.

They’re so immersed in one another that they don’t hear the waitress telling them a table has opened up until she clears her throat and repeats herself. Clarke apologises and Lexa colours slightly, but the waitress only smiles, leading them up the spiral staircase to the mezzanine and out onto the terrace. With unimpeded views across the rooftops of surrounding leafy, tree-lined streets and the greenery of the park beyond, it’s little wonder there’s a line out the door to get seated up here. 

Once they’re settled, the waitress—Elin, she tells them in an accent that Lexa can only pinpoint as being vaguely Scandinavian—hands them a menu each and takes their drinks order.

“This is nice,” Lexa says, after Elin leaves. “Bring all your dates here?”

Clarke takes her sunglasses off, folding the legs and placing them on the table. “And risk forever tainting one of my favourite brunch places by running into an ex? Never.”

“I’m a special exception, huh?” 

“You’re a tourist,” Clarke says, still toying with the sunglasses. She glances up at Lexa from beneath her lashes. “Chances are I may never see you again.”

Despite the flirtiness of the exchange, there’s an undercurrent of truth to it that hits home. Because who knows when Lexa’s schedule might allow her to return to London? Realistically, not until the season ends. And that’s assuming Clarke even wants to continue. For all Lexa knows, this could just be a hot summer fling for Clarke. But instinct tells her otherwise, that Clarke feels the pull as keenly as she does.

“You might catch me on TV.”

Clarke smirks. “Perhaps.”

“Or on a billboard or the side of a bus.” Lexa gives a casual shrug. “Those Nike campaigns have reach.”

“Much like some other things I could mention…” 

Lexa’s ears tinge pink at the suggestive remark.

“Your serve, for instance.”

“My—” Lexa stops and shakes her head; incredulous. She presses her lips together, rolls her eyes. 

“What?” Clarke pokes her tongue into her cheek. Blue eyes brim with mischief. “Did you think I meant something dirty, Lex?”

And it’s the shortening of her name that warms Lexa’s cheeks and her chest as much as the gentle teasing.

In lieu of a retort, Lexa picks up the menu. “So, what else would you recommend?”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Clarke’s right about the eggs; they might just be the best Lexa has ever tasted. Or maybe it’s something to do with the company, because everything seems richer, fuller, brighter around Clarke. Like there’s been an Instagram filter applied to the world.

Speaking of… Lexa takes a snap of the half-empty plate and posts it with the tags #foodisfuel #london. She hesitates a second before adding #brunchdate. Within seconds the heart icon notification counter starts going rapidly up and up.

“Glad I persuaded you not to have boring smashed avocado on toast now?” 

Clarke steals a bite from Lexa’s plate, having already scoffed her own food. She wiggles happily in her seat, letting out a little moan of pleasure that goes straight to Lexa’s groin. 

“Thief,” Lexa mutters mildly and her heart does a wobble when Clarke only grins around the fork.

On impulse, Lexa lifts her phone and snaps a photo of Clarke. Wanting to capture this moment, how the sun catches Clarke’s hair and the sparkle in her eyes. 

“Is that going on your Insta?” 

Lexa shakes her head as she looks at the screen. Another notification comes through. What must be the tenth increasingly irate text from Titus this morning. She swipes it away like the irritation it is. 

“No. This one’s just for me.”

It sounds cringe-worthy even to her own ears but when she glances up to see Clarke with her cheek propped on her knuckles, lower lip drawn between her teeth, the softness held in her gaze, it makes Lexa think she hasn’t misjudged her reply.

  
  
  


***

  
  


They cut through the park afterwards, strolling hand-in-hand past a group of shirtless teenage boys kicking a soccer ball around, a couple playing frisbee, pockets of friends lounging on picnic blankets beneath the shade of the tall ash trees.

They stop by the pond to watch the ducks swim in formation towards a parent and small child tossing bread crusts into the water to entice them over. But as she stands at the water’s edge Lexa finds herself mesmerised by Clarke’s profile instead. 

Several moments slip by in easy silence before Clarke realises she’s being observed. She turns to Lexa and the warm glow in Clarke’s eyes, the slight curve of her smile, golden hair stirring in the faint breeze, all add up to a vision that Lexa can’t resist for a second longer.

She doesn’t care who might be watching. In her mind, they’re the only two people in this city.

So she winds her free arm around Clarke’s waist to smoothly draw her nearer. Tilts her head and kisses Clarke like she’s been dying to since they arrived at the café. Slow, searching, deepening gradually until Lexa remembers the kid nearby and propriety causes her to pull away.

As soon as Clarke senses the retreat, her own arm loops around Lexa’s shoulders, keeping their bodies pressed together. Fingers play with the baby hairs at the nape of Lexa’s neck and she shivers into the touch, despite the sun beating down on her back. 

“What was that for?” Clarke asks, sounding breathless, heavy stare dragging from Lexa’s mouth to her eyes and back again.

“Do I need a reason?” 

“I suppose not.” 

It’s Clarke who leans up this time, initiating another languorous kiss that stretches over minutes. She remains close once they separate, their lips grazing when she rasps, “Are you coming home with me?”

Lexa holds her a little tighter, reluctant to let go. “I have to go back to the house.” Tinged with regret.

“Why?”

“I need clean underwear, for one thing.”

“You don’t. Not for what I have in mind.” Clarke steals a quick kiss. “If only we could find a secluded spot, I’d show you.”

Lexa’s quiet groan of “Clarke” earns her a husky chuckle and a light scrape of teeth on her bottom lip. 

Even though she’s definitely not a fan of outdoor sex she can’t help imagining Clarke pressing her up against a tree, hitching Lexa’s thigh around her hip, and pushing a hand beneath the waistband of the track pants. 

She shudders slightly, almost able to feel the phantom rough bark against her shoulders, the slide of Clarke’s fingers through her, Clarke stifling a gasp with the hot slant of her mouth.

“I can’t,” Lexa sighs. “I hate to cut this short but I should speak to Titus in person before he goes. Judging by the number of voicemails and texts I’ve ignored, he’s having a conniption. It isn’t fair to saddle Anya with that. I’m sorry.”

At once, Clarke grows serious. She squeezes Lexa’s hand before releasing it. “Don’t be. But if you need somewhere to escape to, I’m only a text or phone call away.”

Lexa gives an absent-minded nod, still so distracted by Clarke’s proximity. “You could come over tonight, after they’re gone. Dinner?”

The fingers at Lexa’s nape shift, nails scratching lightly, and she has to restrain herself from capturing Clarke’s lips again. She feels like the next kiss would undo all her good intentions.

“You really want to see me again so soon? You’ll get sick of me.”

“I guarantee I won’t.” 

Clarke sends that tender look again, and it makes Lexa’s heart trip to be on the receiving end of it. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


It’s with some dread that Lexa steps through the door, eyes immediately landing upon the suitcases in the hallway. 

“Where the hell have you been?” comes a livid voice from above and Lexa pulls in a fortifying breath as Titus storms down the stairs and into view. “We leave for the airport in fifteen minutes and you aren’t even packed yet!” He points at the grocery bags in Lexa’s hands. “What’s this?”

She lifts her chin and squares her stance. “I’m not going.”

He stares, uncomprehending. “What?”

“I’m not getting on the plane today.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lexa. You—”

“I’m staying in London until the end of the month,” she responds with a clipped, steady calm that belies the anxiety churning below the surface, the adrenaline speeding her pulse and making her mouth run dry. “I’ve already made arrangements with Indra to extend the house rental.”

Just then Anya pops her head out from the kitchen. Munching on an apple, she watches the scene unfold from the doorway, soaking up the spectacle yet prepared to pounce if she needs to.

“Two days you’ve been AWOL,” Titus berates. “Valuable time that should’ve been spent watching your matches back, not gallivanting around with that—that… _Clarice_.”

A muscle ticks in Lexa’s cheek as she pins him with a glare. “Clarke.”

“Clarke. Clarice. The Queen of England. What does it matter.” He smacks the back of one hand against his palm for emphasis as he remonstrates with her. “Think of your recovery, Lexa. Two weeks away from practice won’t do anything to strengthen your game or your focus. Don’t repeat what happened with Costia.”

“Struth,” Anya mutters in the background. “Now he’s copped it.”

“How _dare_ you bring up her name,” Lexa snarls, voice rising in volume and force as she goes on, a tendon straining in her neck. “I listened to you. Allowed you to influence my opinion because I was young and naive and you made me believe she was holding me back.”

“The downward spiral of your form that season speaks for itself,” Titus says, ignoring Anya as she gestures at him to shut up by making an emphatic cutting motion across her throat. When he barrels on regardless, she drops her hand and rolls her eyes hard. “You fell to 158th in the rankings. From 62nd.”

“I was injured.”

“Because you were weak. Because you’d lost condition. Skipping training. Showing up tired and distracted when you did come to practice. That girl always in tow.” He shakes his head bitterly. “I beg you, Lexa, don’t allow a passing infatuation to derail the progress you’ve made. You’re so close to reaching your full potential.”

“Enough.” Lexa’s fists clench around the handles of the grocery bags. “I will not hear this again.”

“Lexa—”

“Easy on,” Anya drawls, slouching into the hallway at last. “How about you both calm the fuck down?”

She inserts herself between them.

“I’m sure Lexa is gonna keep on top of the physical therapy while she’s here.” An almost invisible smirk lifts one side of Anya’s mouth. “Or it’ll keep on top of her, at least… Isn’t that right, Lex?”

Lexa shoots a sharp, surly look in Anya’s direction. Nonetheless, she purses her lips and gives a stiff nod.

“And, Titus, Christ, give her some space, will you? A fortnight of rest and light rehab is what she needs. If she pushes her hammy too soon it’ll only aggravate the problem. The fact is, being crook in London or in Miami won’t make a lick of difference to her recovery. As long as she gets the proper treatment, what’s the biggie?”

Titus folds his arms and glances away, still stewing in his anger. It’s obvious he wants to argue the point further. But after a long, drawn-out moment he heaves a put-upon sigh, grudging in his acquiescence. 

“Ripper. So now we’re all on the same page, Titus, why don’t you go outside to cool off? Get some air. Take a walk. Whatever. Just give us Sheilas a minute.”

He grumbles some more under his breath but he does as suggested, leaving Lexa and Anya alone in the hallway. 

There’s a short lull, then Anya points the half-eaten apple core at Lexa’s face. “You owe me one. I don’t get paid enough for the earbashing I’m about to endure.”

“I know.” Lexa sets the bags down beside her feet. “I’m sorry.”

“Ten bloody hours stuck beside Britney. In coach. Manspreading and farting in his sleep. If you don’t hear from us in the next fourteen days it’s because I’ve been arrested for smothering him with the complimentary pillow somewhere over the Atlantic.”

Despite herself, Lexa cracks a smile and Anya softens a bit to see it. She lightly punches Lexa on the bicep. “Good onya for standing up for yourself. If this take-no-shit ‘tude is a side effect of showing Tits your map of Tassie then I approve.”

“Map of…?” Lexa scrunches her nose. 

She’s known Anya for more than a decade but the vernacular still catches Lexa out sometimes. The wicked grin she receives is what finally clues her in to Anya’s meaning and she makes a noise of mild disgust. 

“But, seriously, make the most of this free time, yeah?”

“I will.” Lexa nods, feeling weirdly choked up by how supportive and _nice_ Anya is being, sly digs about her sex life aside. “Thank you.”

The loud honk of a car horn from the street slices through the stillness, and suddenly Anya is in a flurry of motion.

“Enjoy the flight,” Lexa calls after her as Anya drags the last of the bulky cases down the short path to the sidewalk, handing them off to Titus and the waiting cab driver. 

“Enjoy the muff-diving!” Anya tosses back over her shoulder with a cackle.

  
  
  


***

  
  


The doorbell rings—a stately _ding dong_ —and Lexa hurriedly wipes her hands on the apron before answering. 

The sight of Clarke on the step, casual in jeans, a cropped blazer and a white tee underneath, fills Lexa with that sparkly, jittery excitement that’s become her constant companion of late. She’s incapable of reining in the smile that embeds itself in her cheeks.

“Hi,” Lexa says softly, allowing her gaze to trip all over Clarke’s figure. 

There’s a pregnant pause, then, “Are you going to let me in or…?”

Clarke lifts her eyebrows, expectant, and Lexa’s ears grow hot. She lets out a small bashful laugh under her breath and steps aside. 

The door isn’t even fully closed before Clarke backs Lexa against the wall with her curves and her smile, before one hand curls around Lexa’s neck to tug her into a kiss. 

“Hi,” Clarke whispers, warm breath fanning across Lexa’s parted lips, then she pushes into another kiss. Hungrier this time. As if they’ve been apart for days rather than hours. 

The giddy energy within Lexa spikes and she reaches for Clarke’s hips, pulling her closer until they’re pressed tightly together from chest to thigh. 

She isn’t sure how long they stay locked in that clinch, making out like a pair of thirsty high schoolers, each chasing every time the other retreats, but when Lexa surfaces there’s a dusting of pink high on Clarke’s cheeks. Her eyes are dark. Lips, rosy and wet and so inviting. Lexa leans in to capture Clarke’s mouth again, only to make a half-formed noise of complaint when Clarke backs off, palms cupping Lexa’s elbows and holding her at arm’s length to get a better look at her. 

Clarke is obviously fighting a smile.

“What?” Lexa asks.

“I’m sorry. It’s just—” Clarke fails to stifle a giggle. “This is too precious.”

Lexa glances down at herself, at the horizontal stripe apron, adorned as it is with the Wimbledon colours of purple, green and white, the iconic crossed rackets logo embroidered upon the chest.

“Did you get the matching tea towels, too?” Clarke says, low and teasing, half grin stretching wider at the blush creeping up Lexa’s neck.

Because of course she did, and more besides. Tournament swag makes for excellent birthday presents for aunts, uncles, cousins and distant relatives when Lexa seldom has the luxury of taking time out of her busy schedule to expend more effort. But she feels too embarrassed about admitting so.

Clarke fiddles with the apron strings looped around Lexa’s waist and tied at the front. “Maybe someday I’ll get to see you in this and nothing else.” She bites her lip. “Pale white arse and all.”

Lexa’s blush is for an entirely different reason now. “You’re really kind of obsessed with my butt.”

“Um. Have you _seen_ your bum? It’s unparalleled.” Clarke’s arms slip around Lexa’s waist to reach her backside. She squeezes once for emphasis before clasping her hands together loosely at the small of Lexa’s back. “But, magnificent glutes aside, how’s the leg holding up?”

“It’s a date, Clarke,” Lexa huffs, a pout forming. “Can we curtail the work talk?”

“Your injury is important to me, and I’m not just speaking as your physio,” Clarke says, adamant, holding eye contact. She gentles. Runs her hands slowly up Lexa’s spine. “I have a more personal vested interest now, don’t I?”

While Lexa swoons a little to hear it she still evades the topic. Because she doesn’t want to think about how sticky her hammy felt this afternoon after their lengthy walk in the park, how it ached as she wandered up and down the aisles at the grocery store gathering all the ingredients for dinner. She doesn’t want those thoughts to intrude, not when Clarke looks _this_ gorgeous and needs to be kissed again immediately.

But Clarke dodges Lexa’s mouth, presses a hand to her chest to halt the advance. “Lex.”

Lexa is powerless to resist the nickname, spoken in that tone, in that _voice_. 

She sighs. “It isn’t bothering me. If or when it does, I’ll tell you. Okay?” 

Noting Clarke’s dubious stare, Lexa tugs at her waist until their hips bump together. The slow, easy smile that Lexa finds impossibly attractive returns to Clarke’s lips. Lexa’s about to reacquaint herself with the taste and shape of it when Clarke finally takes notice of the aroma drifting through from the kitchen: the stock that’s currently simmering on the stovetop.

“What are you making for me? It smells wonderful.”

“My famous risotto. Shrimp, mussels, scallops. Infused with saffron and fresh herbs. Hope you’re hungry; the portion sizes are typically American.”

“Famished.”

“Good. You’re going to need the energy.”

One eyebrow perks up. “Oh?”

“Mhm,” Lexa says with a wink and disentangles herself, enjoying the slight drop of Clarke’s jaw, the intrigue written across her face.

Lexa leads them into the kitchen but Clarke stops short when her gaze lands on the table set for two, a single stem rose and a couple of small jar candles occupying the centre. She glances from the table to Lexa, eyes wide, and Lexa ducks her head, rubs at the back of her neck, thinking how trite it must seem with the candles and the low music and if she’d only had more time to prepare she could’ve—

Before she knows it, Clarke has closed the distance between them. She takes Lexa’s face in her hands. Rubs her thumbs across Lexa’s cheekbones. Kisses her until the tension is gone from Lexa’s frame.

“All this effort to get me into bed...” Clarke murmurs. “What other surprises do you have up your sleeve tonight?”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.” Lexa gives a tiny, gentle nudge of her nose against Clarke’s. “Besides, this isn’t about getting you into bed.” She pauses and corrects herself. “It isn’t _only_ about that.”

“Wooing me, are you?” Said lightly, but the look in Clarke’s half-lidded eyes makes Lexa feel warm and tingly all over. 

“What if I am?”

“Then I’d say… keep it up.”

They dip into another kiss that begins slow and soft. It soon turns greedier. Mouths open and hot breaths mingling. Lexa grips Clarke’s waist, lets her hands roam under the blazer while they trade heavy kisses. The wet slide of Clarke’s tongue, the sweep of fingertips over her ears and down her neck sends a stab of arousal through Lexa’s belly. She isn’t fully aware that they’re moving until her back collides with the cool surface of the fridge door. Her hands slip under the hem of Clarke’s shirt, calloused palms gliding up the expanse of soft skin, thumbs skating along underwire and—

The insistent beep of the oven timer pulls an irritated sigh from them both. 

Lexa drags her mouth away and the glimpse of blown pupils has another little shock shooting down her spine. She tips her forehead against Clarke’s and offers an apologetic, “to be continued?”

“You’d better,” Clarke warns with a soft growl and a pinch to Lexa’s ass.

  
  
  


***

  
  


“Just so you know, I’m seriously considering holding you hostage as my personal chef,” Clarke says as she folds her napkin on the table. “Do you have any other talents I should know about?”

Lexa hides her proud smile by taking a sip of the Chablis Clarke brought—she’d debated having any until Anya’s parting instruction rang in her ears and she thought “fuck it, I’m resting” and poured herself a large glass. Half a bottle later, the combined effects of the wine, the candlelight, and flirty conversation have her feeling fuzzy around the edges. 

“I’ve just practised this one dish a lot,” Lexa shrugs, the praise nonetheless adding to that wine-warm glow in her chest. “It’s a family recipe, passed down from my Italian great-grandmother. She was from Brescia, in the north.”

“Well, I’m not much of a cook.” Clarke picks up her glass by the stem and swirls the liquid around. “But I do love eating out.”

It’s juvenile, but Lexa can’t resist: “Oh, I know.”

Clarke stares, mouth agape, and Lexa smirks, entirely too pleased with herself. 

“I see tipsy Lexa is even ruder than her sober counterpart,” Clarke says dryly, once she recovers her composure. She nudges Lexa’s shin under the table in retaliation, but then she keeps her foot there, rubbing the side of Lexa’s calf in a slow up-down motion. “I suppose I did walk into that one.”

“You really did,” Lexa agrees, watching Clarke over the rim of the glass while she takes another sip. 

Their eyes catch for a few seconds, the air growing more charged between them, before Clarke adds with a flex of one brow, “Still, I can’t dispute the accuracy.”

Desire flares hot in Lexa at the drop of Clarke’s voice into a lower register and the fact they’re not even dealing in double entendres anymore. She finds herself pressing her thighs together while her thoughts skip ahead, a fractured mosaic of raunchy images assaulting her brain. 

She clears her throat, conscious that her ears are burning. Deflects, “So, for dessert, I have cheesecake. Store-bought, unfortunately. My culinary skills only extend so far.”

“That’s perfectly fine. No judgement here. Although, I don’t think I could manage another bite at the moment.”

Lexa nods towards the second bottle of wine that’s been left open to breathe on the kitchen island. “How about we enjoy a glass or two al fresco to give us time to digest?” Off Clarke’s ready smile of agreement, Lexa tells her, “Go ahead. I’ll grab the bottle.”

Beyond the patio doors there’s a paved area, as well as a small patch of well-manicured grass and a two-seater swing at the far end of the garden path, the frame of which is strung with lights. Space being at a premium in London, the yard is fairly compact; long and narrow and shrouded by tall hedges on all sides for privacy. 

Carrying the bottle, her one-third-full glass, and a blanket in case the temperature drops, Lexa uses her elbow to flick the outside lights on before she exits the house. 

Already perched on the swing, Clarke looks up at the sound of footsteps on the flagstones. 

“Is this all part of your plan to seduce me?” She gestures towards the seat and the twinkling lights. When she spies the wool blanket draped over Lexa’s forearm—the distinctive plaid pattern—she laughs. “I should’ve known you bought the Wimbledon rug. I hope they gave you a large discount for clearing out the gift shop.”

Lexa purses her lips.

“No, no, it's cute. You’re cute. Come over here.” 

Clarke pats the empty space beside her encouragingly. Flutters her lashes in Lexa’s direction and Lexa’s resistance crumbles to nothing. Clarke takes the throw from her and spreads it over their knees. 

“It’s much cooler in the shade anyway. Thank you for being so thoughtful.”

Mollified, Lexa tops up their wine and sets the bottle down on the ground. “It was free with all purchases over £50 so you can’t mock me for this one.”

They cosy up a little closer, their hips and shoulders pressed together, body heat radiating through the thin sleeves of Clarke’s tee and Lexa’s linen button down.

“A technicality,” Clarke says, gaze drifting to the curve of Lexa’s mouth, “but I’m willing to let it slide on this occasion.”

Lexa shifts until she’s able to drape her arm along the back of the seat—a corny, predictable move but she doesn’t care. “How magnanimous.”

“Very.”

She can’t stop looking at Clarke; the way the sunset blazes in her hair and the fairy lights are reflected in the deep dark of her pupils. And that persistent tug in Lexa’s chest only grows stronger with every passing second.

Slowly, so slowly, they both lean in. 

Wine-sweetened breath spills across her lips.

“I think I’m ready for dessert now,” Clarke says.

The low rasp of her voice makes Lexa’s stomach swoop and clench. But her mind catches up with her body and a chord of uncertainty strikes within her. It must show in her expression because Clarke laughs softly.

“No, Lex, not the cheesecake.”

Still smiling, Clarke reaches for Lexa, warm palm sliding down the side of her neck and beneath the open collar of her shirt as their lips meet. Lexa threads her fingers into Clarke’s hair and the kiss deepens on a mutual sigh. They move with gentle urgency, mouths open, and the playful stroke of Clarke’s tongue as she licks inside causes heat to pool heavily between Lexa’s legs.

In imminent danger of spilling the wine, they only separate to discard their glasses. Now empty-handed, Lexa pulls Clarke into her lap, casting off the blanket onto the grass. They surge into another kiss that Clarke quickly takes control of, cradling Lexa’s face in her hands and tipping her head for a better angle, claiming her mouth with confidence. Lexa grips at Clarke’s waist, lets her thumbs edge under the hem of the tee, seeking the soft skin of Clarke’s stomach beneath, relishing how Clarke squirms a little at the ticklish touch, the way she rocks her hips forward as a statement of intent, the slight catch of her breath when Lexa fiddles with the button at the waistband of Clarke’s jeans.

The kiss stalls, their lips clinging, eyes half open as they regard each other, as Lexa works the button through its loop and drags the zip down. She slips a hand inside the gap and they both release a shuddery exhale when her fingertips graze over damp lace. 

She mouths Clarke’s name silently and then they’re kissing again, Clarke’s tongue wet and heavy against her own. Lexa’s fingers go lower, pressing in where the fabric is most saturated over Clarke’s entrance. And Clarke groans, cants her hips, bucking into the pressure. The sound raises goosebumps all over Lexa’s body and while she wants to hear it again, more than anything else she wants Clarke out of these clothes and laid bare on her queen-size bed.

So she withdraws, unable to hold back a smile at Clarke’s quiet noise of displeasure or the adorable frown on her face. Lexa pacifies her with a press of her lips to Clarke’s cheek, the corner of her jaw.

“I don’t want a quick and dirty fumble in the backyard.” A perceptible shiver goes through Clarke at Lexa’s words, spoken next to her ear. “I want to see you, feel you. God, Clarke, your body is—”

She doesn’t even get to finish that sentence before Clarke vacates her lap with a surprising amount of grace. Lexa stares after Clarke as she saunters towards the house, a deliberate sway in her hips. Halfway up the path she stops and glances over her shoulder and that blistering look makes Lexa’s mouth go dry. 

“Coming?”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Their kisses run deep and heavy as they stumble through the bedroom doorway. Hands roaming, pushing under clothes, grabbing at asses. They bump up against the dresser then the side table, knocking over the lampshade, before they crash onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. Given the trail of destruction, it’s likely the rental deposit might be forfeit but Lexa couldn’t care less.

It’s a blind scramble to get Clarke’s t-shirt over her head. Clumsy fingers attack the buttons of Lexa’s shirt until Clarke grows impatient and yanks the last couple free. She shoves the shirt off Lexa’s shoulders and down her arms then seizes Lexa’s cheeks to kiss her hard, mouth moving over Lexa’s with the kind of insistent hunger that leaves her gasping after a few minutes.

Lexa huffs out a breathless laugh and clutches at Clarke’s back as she abandons Lexa’s lips to suck a hot path down her throat.

“Someone’s in a rush. Have you got somewhere else to be this evening?” The sardonic question trails off into a whimper when Clarke bites at Lexa’s collarbone. 

“Hmm, well.” Clarke’s mouth remains latched to Lexa’s clavicle, her answer mumbled against skin between kisses. “Unfortunately, yes. I estimate I’ve got a couple of hours before Bell knocks everything off the mantelpiece in a fit of pique because he hasn’t had his dinner.”

Lexa chuckles but the telling silence from Clarke gives her pause. “You aren’t staying over?” She swiftly backtracks, realising how presumptuous that sounded. “I mean, not that I expect—it’s just...”

“I wish I could,” Clarke reassures Lexa with a kiss to her jaw. “But I’m not even exaggerating about Bell’s legendary tantrums. Last time I was out all night he left a lovely present on the duvet for me to find when I arrived home.”

Lexa‘s nose wrinkles in distaste.

“Ordinarily, I’d text Linc to feed the cat when I’m… otherwise indisposed, since he has my spare key, but he’s not back yet.” Clarke looks regretful. “Sorry. I should’ve said something earlier but I didn’t want to spoil our evening.”

“Don’t be.” Lexa gives a wan smile to cover her disappointment (and the strange little wriggle of unease she feels about the allusion to Clarke’s prior sexual history). She moves a lock of hair off Clarke’s face. “You have to go back to your diva cat. I’ll just have to impress you with breakfast another time.”

“If it involves a protein shake or some sort of foul green juice then I suspect I’m not missing out on much.”

Outwardly, Lexa pretends to sulk but her stomach does a tiny somersault as Clarke’s grin closes in. Because, _fuck_ , she’s gorgeous and Lexa feels suddenly bereft that she won’t wake up to see those eyes and that smile in the morning.

She runs her hands up Clarke’s arms, across her shoulders. “On the plus side, at least now I can do dirty things to you without fear of a vicious attack from that thing you call a pet.”

“Maybe he senses you want to do dirty things to me. He’s trying to protect my virtue.”

Lexa smirks. “Pretty sure it’s a lost cause if he is. Good girls don’t do that thing you do with your tongue, Clarke.”

“I don’t recall hearing any complaints from you,” Clarke says archly. She drags a finger over Lexa’s sternum, eyes trained on the roaming digit before they snap back up to meet Lexa’s amused gaze. “What I do distinctly remember is nearly having my eardrums perforated when you came for the third time. I’m surprised no one phoned the police to report a noise disturbance.”

Lexa rolls her eyes for show, not-so-secretly delighted by this bantering they’re engaged in. It fires her competitive streak more than she cares to admit and she isn’t one to back down. 

She hooks her thumbs under Clarke’s bra straps, toying with the elastic.

“Please. You’re so into it. Don’t think I didn’t notice your reaction whenever I made the slightest sound on your table.”

“As if I could ignore the relentless grunting and groaning.” Clarke drops her hips, pushes against the cradle of Lexa’s pelvis. Lips find her jaw again, nipping along the edge, and Clarke’s voice is no louder than a whisper, a warm breeze against the tender skin of Lexa’s throat when she adds, “You weren’t the only one who had to take matters into their own hands after our sessions.”

The words, the picture they conjure up, send a hot quiver through Lexa’s veins. All the enticement she needs to roll them over and press Clarke into the sheets. 

She can’t refrain from taking a second or ten to admire the view the reversal affords: Clarke, beneath her; the steady rise and fall of her chest encased in lingerie that makes Lexa feel exponentially gayer just by looking at it; Clarke’s lips, parted and shiny and kiss-swollen; the provocative gleam of her stare in the fading light.

It’s the mention of Lexa’s name, husky and pitched low, that finally brings her out of her trance. She offers a sheepish smile and focuses on peeling Clarke’s jeans off. Once her limbs are freed from the tight denim, Clarke pulls Lexa down to meet eager lips once more. And Lexa sinks into it, opens her mouth to welcome Clarke’s tongue inside while she pushes under the satin cups of Clarke’s bra, hard nipples grazing her palms.

Clarke shivers, arches into Lexa’s hands, a soft sound getting caught in the ardent give and take of their kiss. She touches Lexa greedily in kind, groping and grasping for whatever she can reach until she seeks out the clasp of Lexa’s bra at last. As soon as it hangs loosely off Lexa’s skin, Clarke isn’t shy about fitting her hands around Lexa’s boobs. Thumbs roll over the tight points of her nipples again and again, a sweet kind of torture that has Lexa’s hips slowly grinding into Clarke’s before long, but the friction isn’t nearly enough to provide any relief. By the time Clarke reaches between them, unfastening the button at Lexa’s waist, they’re both panting, the kiss turning messy amid their laboured breathing. 

“Off,” Clarke says while she tugs at denim, the raspy need in her voice sending sparks across Lexa’s skin. 

She at least has the presence of mind to help Clarke shove the jeans and underwear down to her ankles before their mouths collide again. Before Clarke works a knee between her legs and Lexa rocks forward to meet the smooth press of Clarke’s thigh. She feels rather than hears the sharp intake of breath at the wetness that greets Clarke, the subsequent purr as Lexa begins to move on her in earnest. The drag of Clarke’s hands up and down Lexa’s spine and over the tops of her buttocks, nails scoring into flesh, speeds the momentum of her hips. 

Pressure builds and Lexa chases it. 

Grinding against the solid resistance of Clarke’s tensed thigh. 

Rotating her hips in tight, deliberate circles, rubbing and slipping against Clarke’s slick skin, never ceasing contact. 

It’s fast and dirty and Lexa’s orgasm rushes upon her so unexpectedly quickly that she chokes on a startled moan.

She screws her eyes shut and shudders hard, hips jerking a few more times.

And Clarke strokes Lexa’s back long after she stops convulsing, soothing her through the aftershocks, kissing her tenderly once Lexa lowers herself into Clarke’s arms.

“If you’re going to make a wisecrack about my inability to last longer than a teenage boy, now would be the time to take advantage of my weakened state,” Lexa murmurs, nuzzling into Clarke’s shoulder. “Not sure I’m capable of a witty comeback yet.”

She feels the low rumble of Clarke’s laughter beneath her cheek, how Clarke’s body shakes gently with it and another, different wave of contentment washes over Lexa.

“Then we’d better get someone from Guinness World Records over here for independent verification because, at the risk of further inflating that impossible ego of yours, I think I might give you a run for your money on that front.”

Lexa cracks one eye open and peers up at Clarke. 

“You came on my leg less than a minute ago, Lexa,” Clarke says, deadpan. “Only someone who’s clinically dead wouldn’t be insanely turned on.”

“ _Insanely_ turned on, huh?” Lexa draws up onto her elbows, a smile pulling up one corner of her mouth. 

She rolls to the side. Glances down Clarke’s body. Looks her over slowly, shamelessly. Eyes stalling for a brief moment over the bra still shoved up above Clarke’s tits, pale lace against paler skin, nipples erect and begging for Lexa’s attention. It quickens her pulse again, rekindled desire thrumming through every part of her. 

She licks her bottom lip. Lets her eyes drift lower, to matching panties that, even in the relative gloom, betray a wet patch staining the crotch a darker shade. 

She doesn’t waste another precious second looking when she should be _touching_. 

She leans over to take a nipple between her lips and sucks it to a hard, rosy point; runs her tongue around the tip; hums her approval around soft skin when fingers lodge themselves in her hair. She plants open-mouthed kisses across to the other breast, breathing in the scent of Clarke’s skin—an intoxicating mix of light perfume and clean sweat beginning to sprout and the body wash that she spied in the shower caddy this morning—and she can’t get her fill. 

Lexa keeps this up for long minutes. Varying between slow licks and deep suction and gentle bites until Clarke’s mounting frustration becomes evident in the way her hands weave tighter in Lexa’s hair. But Lexa soon relents, having no more patience for teasing than Clarke does right now.

Throwing off her jeans at last, Lexa resituates herself on her knees between Clarke’s legs. Holds Clarke’s dark, half-lidded stare for a beat before she bends to kiss along the grooves of Clarke’s ribs, down to her navel, Lexa shuffling down the bed as she goes. Abdominals flutter and tense when her lips brush the elasticated edge of Clarke’s underwear. From here she can already smell Clarke’s arousal, a thick, heady musk, and it makes Lexa’s mouth water. 

She looks up, maintains heavy eye contact as she uses her teeth to take hold of the fabric over Clarke’s hip bone and drag it lower by an inch. She repeats the action at the other side, smirking when Clarke’s legs fall further open, as she angles her pelvis up in invitation. There’s a little tuft of hair peeking out above the waistband and the glimpse of it is somehow the most erotic thing. 

Lexa hunches down, sets her palms on the inside of Clarke’s thighs and drags her tongue over wet satin in one broad, slow stripe. The reaction is immediate and forceful: a strained “fuck”, the leap of Clarke’s hips, nails raking through Lexa’s hair in encouragement. 

She licks over Clarke again, firmer this time, ending with a swirl around the bump of her clit, and the resulting shaky moan triggers a sympathetic throb between Lexa’s own legs. 

Between Lexa’s saliva and Clarke’s wetness, it isn’t long before the underwear is soaked through and the damp spot has spread to the bed sheet below Clarke’s ass. It’s only then that Lexa finally pushes the sodden barrier aside to run her tongue over Clarke unimpeded. That first full-flavoured taste has her eyes rolling back and a whine of “Lex, please” erupting from Clarke’s throat. 

Not that Lexa has any inclination to make Clarke wait, or even to interrupt this long enough to remove Clarke’s underwear. Instead, she wordlessly applies a little pressure to urge Clarke’s legs further apart. Her breath catches at the sight of Clarke spread open, the pretty, dark pink flush of her framed by wispy blonde hair, the wet shimmer on her skin.

Lexa skims the length of Clarke in flat swipes, uses the tip of her tongue to follow delicate folds, licks inside and feels out the ridges and smooth muscles that flutter and clench around her. All the while Clarke’s hips are in constant motion—slow thrusts when Lexa dips into her, growing in urgency when Lexa goes deeper; fast, careless rocking once Lexa withdraws to turn her attention to Clarke’s cherry-red clit, swollen and emerging from its hood. She takes the hard bud into her mouth and the alternation of firm suction and tracing irregular patterns soon has Clarke’s back bowing, pelvis jutting up, nails scraping against Lexa’s scalp as release crashes over her.

While Clarke gasps for breath above, Lexa darts lower to lap up the river of slick, groaning at the rich, tangy flavour that sits heavy on her tongue. So thorough and attentive that Clarke soon begins to squirm and tug at Lexa’s hair to urge her up her body.

Smiling against sweat-damp skin, Lexa drops featherlight kisses along the way—on Clarke’s hip, the soft curve of her stomach, an appendix scar that’s faded to almost nothing, the scattering of freckles across her torso—until she’s yanked into a clash of lips. For a few torrid minutes they devour one another, each kiss melding seamlessly into the next, and Lexa feels half-delirious with lust once they break apart to draw in lungfuls of oxygen. 

Because physical intimacy has never been like this with anyone else. 

All-consuming. 

An adrenaline high that Lexa doesn’t ever want to come down from.

Braced on her hands and knees over Clarke, Lexa is so caught up in gazing at the woman below her that the exploratory slide of fingers between her legs gives her jolt of surprise. She’s a little more prepared for the second touch. The third has her rolling her hips to meet it.

“Come here, you,” Clarke mutters before she grips Lexa by the nape, slants their mouths together, pushing two fingers in and swallowing Lexa’s high gasp. 

Lexa mirrors the action, her own hand snaking between their bodies to find Clarke’s clit. She teases Clarke with a few gentle strokes that have her growling impatiently into the kiss, losing the rhythm of her thrusts for a moment when Lexa circles her entrance. She glides in easy. Going knuckle-deep. Clarke is so hot and so fucking wet, and Lexa is in love with the snug cling of her around her fingers.

They move together. Slow. Eyes open and watching each other. Hardly kissing at all now, merely sharing the same humid air.

It’s overwhelming, the connection almost too intense, but Lexa can’t look away. Doesn’t want to shut her eyes and miss a single second of this.

It feels as though there’s a weight pressing down on her chest, a growing pressure behind her ribs that echoes the ache spreading outwards from her groin. The swipe of a thumb across her clit makes her shudder and she rocks down, taking Clarke deeper. Clarke keeps returning, circling and rolling over her clit, and Lexa matches her stroke for stroke. They pick up the pace as they strive towards the finish together, breath coming in shortened, syncopated bursts. Lexa senses Clarke’s climax is imminent by the way she scratches at her neck, how the movement of her hips becomes ever more erratic. 

Then Clarke changes the angle of her thumb, rubs just so, and it’s Lexa who cries out first, every muscle in her body clenching tight. Time seems to stretch and stretch, strung taut before it snaps back and she shakes through a keening wail. 

Weak-limbed, she slumps against Clarke and in doing so, her thumbs slips, an inelegant fumble, but it’s enough for Clarke to follow her over the edge only seconds later with a curse on her lips. 

They stay like that for a while, hands trapped between them, lying cheek to cheek. The awkward angle puts a strain on Lexa’s wrist but she’s reluctant to move, to dispel the deep, blissful satisfaction she feels down to her bones. But she’s also aware she must be squashing Clarke beneath her dead weight.

So Lexa lifts her head to press a gentle kiss to Clarke’s lips. Gets lost in the soft yield of Clarke’s mouth against her own before she remembers and starts to raise herself off Clarke’s body. Arms wind around her shoulders, stopping her from pulling away completely.

“Could we just,” Clarke gives a tiny shrug, “hold each other for a bit?”

In the semi-darkness, Lexa can’t clearly read Clarke’s expression but there’s an underlying note of vulnerability in the request.

Even so, Lexa goes for brevity. “Post-coital cuddling? Wow. That’s gay, Clarke.”

It earns her a light slap on the shoulder. 

“Bisexual, actually.” Nonetheless, amusement colours Clarke’s tone. “But fine. If you aren’t going to put those ripped arms around me then you should at least fetch me a slice of cheesecake instead. Sex always makes me peckish.”

“How about we snuggle _and_ share a plate?”

“Is it too soon to tell you I love you?”

Clarke’s joking. Objectively, Lexa knows that but it still stops her heart for a beat. Starts it again in a rush.

She’s tongue-tied, tripping over words that sound far softer and more sincere than she intends when she replies, “And you haven’t even sampled my French toast yet. You’re making this wooing thing way too easy for me.”

“Would you prefer I played hard to get?”

Lexa shakes her head, “No.”

“Alright, then. So shut up and kiss me.”

When Clarke reels her in for another long and lingering kiss, Lexa’s unable to control how she trembles.

  
  
  


***

  
  


While sex makes Clarke hungry, feeding her appetite also renews her thirst. And so Lexa finds herself sprawled out on her back one last time, watching in a drowsy daze as Clarke pulls on her jeans.

“Sure you can’t spend the night?” Lexa asks, pushing up onto one wobbly elbow. “Your monster of a cat could stand to skip a couple of meals anyway.”

Clarke shoots a withering look over her shoulder, only to become distracted by Lexa’s bare chest, by the fading splotches of colour across it, and the sheer abundance of leg on display. 

(Lexa _may_ have strategically rearranged the placement of the covers while Clarke’s back was turned because she’s not above using sneaky tactics in any sphere of her life.)

“He’s not fat, he’s just big-furred.” But the rebuttal lacks any real conviction, Clarke’s voice betraying the cracks in her composure. The tip of her tongue darts out to moisten her lips while she stares for a long moment. Then, with obvious effort, she turns away, stoops to pick up her t-shirt and sighs, “Much as it pains me to go, I’m afraid Bell is very particular about his mealtime schedule.”

“I can relate,” Lexa concedes. 

She tilts her head, taking full advantage of the opportunity to appraise Clarke in jeans and a bra. 

And, Jesus, what a sight it is. 

Lexa’s hands itch to slide up Clarke’s sides and cup the heavy fullness of her tits through the barrier of satin and lace. To test their soft give and feel the bump of nipples against her palms.

So it’s a major cause for regret when Clarke pulls the shirt over her head and down her torso, obscuring Lexa’s view of such spectacular cleavage.

As soon as Clarke catches sight of Lexa’s petted lower lip, she walks towards the bed, leans down and gives Lexa the sort of kiss that’s going to feature prominently in her dreams tonight and occupy her waking thoughts tomorrow. Slow. Deep. On the cusp of positively filthy.

A wanting noise clogs Lexa’s throat as she reaches for Clarke, to coax her down and into open arms, but Clarke breaks it off and slips out of her grasp.

“Tease,” Lexa mutters. 

She flops back against the pillows, watching from beneath lowered lashes while Clarke moves across the room to retrieve her shoes and return to sit on the edge of the bed. 

She puts the ballet flats on, tossing a sly sidelong glance in Lexa’s direction when she responds, “Have to leave you wanting more.”

“I already do.” 

A guileless admission. Entirely honest and sincere.

Because Lexa can’t deny that she’s addicted to Clarke, to the way she _feels_ around Clarke; light and carefree and easy, a smile never far from her face. Tennis has been her life for so long—training, competing, everything regimented and pursued with staunch, unwavering focus to the exclusion of all else—but for the first time in years, Lexa feels her age, her youth. Twenty-three, a stranger in a foreign city, happily entangled in an affair with a girl who exhibits more sass than Lexa knows how to deal with, and energised by the boundless possibility of it all. 

“You’re quite the charmer when you’re high on sex endorphins,” Clarke says, something unquantifiably soft and affectionate in her gaze as she searches Lexa’s expression. 

“I’m always charming.”

“Mm, I beg to differ. The day we met, for instance…”

“You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?” 

“Nope.”

Lips pursed, Lexa hums her feigned displeasure, holding Clarke’s gaze for a few extended seconds.

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

Clarke doesn’t miss a beat. “You, hopefully.”

And Lexa can’t prevent the coy laugh that bubbles up, even as warmth creeps up her neck. 

“That could be arranged. But hooking up aside, I was thinking maybe you could show me around town? Give me the native Londoner’s perspective.” She takes Clarke’s hand where it rests on the covers between them. Their fingers slide together then interlock. “If you want to, of course. I can go exploring on my own if you aren’t keen on playing tour guide to an ignorant Yankee.”

“Lex.” The fond look remains, blue eyes glowing in the diffuse light from the single bedside lamp. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Really?”

Clarke nods and looks down at their linked hands. 

“You’re not alone, you know.” She bites her lip and meets Lexa’s eyes again. “In wanting more.”

If she wasn’t already lying down, Lexa would be swooning hard.

“Clarke,” she whispers, eyes darting around the other woman’s face. 

She leverages up into a sitting position, tugs Clarke closer by the hand until there’s hardly any space between them, is enthralled by Clarke’s quick intake of breath before their lips connect. 

It’s the softest, briefest of kisses, achingly tender and sweet, and it sends a pang of longing between Lexa’s ribs. 

With a sigh, she rests her forehead against Clarke’s. “Go. Avert the feline rampage.”

But Clarke doesn’t make any move to withdraw. She fits her free hand to Lexa’s jaw, strokes Lexa’s cheek with her thumb, tilts in for another lingering kiss.

“Clarke.” It’s only a half-hearted admonishment because, inside, Lexa’s elated about Clarke’s apparent struggle to tear herself away.

“It’s not my fault. How dare you have those lips and those eyes and that audacious jawline,” Clarke grumbles. “Frankly, your face is offensive.”

“Genetics,” Lexa shrugs. She bumps Clarke’s nose with her own. “But I’ll relay your outrage to my parents when we next speak.”

“Oh? You’d tell them about me?” Clarke draws back to peer at Lexa. She wiggles her eyebrows. “The English girl distracting you from your game with her dazzling good looks, witty repartee, and cracking tits.”

“You forgot the part about how humble you are.”

“It goes without saying. Brits hate to boast. We leave that to our friends across the pond.”

Sharing a smile, they both press in again to brush their lips together, indulging themselves for a little while longer. 

Much later, after Clarke has been safely bundled into a taxi and Lexa is in the process of tidying the kitchen, her phone lights up on the counter with a text notification. She pauses in her methodical loading of the dishwasher, stomach doing a little flip when she recognises Clarke’s name on the screen.

_Thanks for having me. Dessert was especially enjoyable. And the cheesecake wasn’t bad too..._

A cocky grin tugs at Lexa’s mouth as she picks up the phone and swipes to reply. 

_Wish I could’ve had you a few more times._

_C: We can remedy that tomorrow._

The animated grey dots reappear and Lexa waits, hip cocked and leaning against the counter, smile broadening by the second in anticipation of Clarke’s next message.

_C: Get plenty of rest tonight because I need you in peak condition._

_C: Also—pack an overnight bag. Pyjamas not required. In fact, they’re actively discouraged._

Lexa chuckles to herself as she taps out her response: _duly noted_.

  
  
  


***

  
  


“Is there anywhere in particular you’re interested in visiting today?” Clarke asks as they descend the steps leading to the train platform.

Post-morning rush hour, there aren’t too many people loitering on either side of the platform and nobody pays any attention to the new arrivals beyond a cursory glance out of boredom.

“The usual tourist traps, I guess.”

“Okay. So…” Clarke taps the little dimple in her chin while she presumably does some mental calculations. “If we take the District line to St James’s Park we could walk up to Buckingham Palace first, then head to the Houses of Parliament, which is just a short distance from the London Eye. If you’re feeling up to it, we can continue following the Thames to the Globe Theatre and cross over Tower Bridge further along.”

“Sounds good,” Lexa says with an absent bob of her head, staring at Clarke’s mouth from behind the cover of her Ray-Bans. Still distracted by the kiss they’d shared in greeting when she dropped off her bag at Clarke’s apartment earlier. One kiss had turned into an extended makeout and now she can’t take her eyes off the enticing bow of Clarke’s upper lip.

“But, Lexa, if your hamstring gives you any trouble at all you need to let me know immediately. No soldiering through it in silence.” 

Clarke’s authoritative tone brooks no argument and Lexa has to mask a smile because the stern pinch of Clarke’s brows couldn’t be any more endearing.

“Yes, Doc.”

“I’m serious.” 

Clarke pokes at Lexa’s sternum and Lexa captures that rogue finger, bringing Clarke’s hand to her lips so she can press a placating kiss to the knuckles. It‘s an effective ploy; the tension visibly eases from Clarke’s expression, leaving only soft concern behind in her gaze. Their fingers remain entwined when Lexa lowers their hands. 

“I promise I won’t overextend myself,” she says, solemnly. Her lips twitch. “Wouldn’t want to earn the wrath of the physio I’ve been seeing.” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “I’m kinda hoping to get lucky later.”

Clarke takes a half step closer. “Oh, really? Do I know this person?”

“Maybe. She’s blonde, blue-eyed, about five four. Feisty. _Super_ hot. Has a spoiled cat that I’m pretty sure wants to murder me, but it’s not a dealbreaker.”

“She sounds like quite the catch,” Clarke smirks while she plays with the hem of Lexa’s muscle tank. “You should lock that down.”

Lexa drifts forward too. “I’m trying. I believe she’s what you guys call posh totty.”

All pretence vanishing, Clarke scoffs and yanks on Lexa’s shirt in rebuke. “I am not. Yes, I grew up in the suburbs and my family are terminally middle class but I went to the local comprehensive school—a 1970’s concrete monstrosity, which was decidedly not posh. And you’ve seen where I live. Hardly the lap of luxury. I’d wager your upbringing was much more privileged than mine.”

“It’s the accent,” Lexa shrugs. “It sounds classy to my untrained American ear.” 

“Hmm.”

She runs a hand up Clarke’s arm, a conciliatory gesture, skimming over the diaphanous sleeve of the ivory peasant blouse she wears, coming to rest on her shoulder. Clarke hooks a finger into the nearest belt loop of Lexa’s denim cut-offs and pulls, bringing her closer still.

“Have I mentioned it’s also extremely sexy?”

“Perhaps once or twice.” Clarke’s hand migrates under Lexa’s shirt, teasing along the skin above the waistband of her shorts. “I’m starting to think you have a voice kink.”

“No.” Lexa slides an arm around Clarke’s shoulders. “It’s a _you_ kink. Everything about you turns me on.”

The flush on Clarke’s cheeks is visible to Lexa even with shades on.

“If you keep this flattery up I doubt we’ll make it to Buckingham Palace.”

“I’ll just have to take tea with ol’ Queen Lizzie another time then.”

“I thought you wanted to go sightseeing?”

“I do. But there’s such a thing as a hierarchy of needs.”

“Lex,” Clarke says in vague disapproval but there’s a flicker of indecision in her eyes. Like she’s actively considering blowing off their plans in order to spend the day in bed (or whatever surface they might find themselves on). 

That is, until she catches sight of the train approaching over Lexa’s shoulder and her gaze turns speculative. “How about we strike a deal?”

Intrigued, Lexa cocks her head to show she’s listening. Only to swallow when Clarke leans up to place her mouth beside Lexa’s ear, the hot puff of her breath tickling the shell. That and Clarke’s whispered words—barely audible over the screech of brakes as the train comes to an eventual stop—send a tingle down Lexa’s spine: “I’ll give you one orgasm for every tourist attraction we cross off the list today.”

Heralded by a series of beeps, the doors slide open and passengers begin to pile out onto the platform.

Lexa doesn’t spare a second thought.

She pulls Clarke by the hand towards the nearest carriage.

  
  
  


***

  
  


The morning is a whirlwind of gawking at famous landmarks—from the ornate neoclassical façade of Buckingham Palace to the imposing gothic grandeur of Westminster. When Lexa’s eyes grow round at the iconic _bong_ of Big Ben marking the hour, Clarke laughs at her fondly and kisses her shoulder. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never done all this before,” Clarke says, as they stroll across the bridge to reach the London Eye on the other side of the river. They have to swerve to avoid a gaggle of tourists who’ve abruptly stopped to take an impromptu group photo on the sidewalk (with that most ubiquitous of irritants, a selfie stick), and in doing so Clarke grabs for Lexa’s hand. 

Neither relinquishes their hold, despite the sweltering midday temperature quickly making their palms grow damp.

“Who was I supposed to go with? Titus? Anya?” Lexa shakes her head. “Imagine the constant sarcastic commentary I’d have to put up with.”

“Mm, I see your point.” They walk in silence for a bit until Clarke speaks up again. “What about other players? Any friends on the tour?”

“There are a couple of people I’m… cordial with but, no. Not really.” Lexa gives a wry smile. “I don’t know if you noticed this but on first impression, I can come across a little brusque and intense.”

Clarke‘s lips twist in amusement, fingers squeezing around Lexa’s. 

“During competition, I’m just in the zone, you know? And, besides, it’s difficult to shift the mindset of viewing my opponents as anything other than competition. When someone stands between me and victory, there’s no room for friendship on the court.” Lexa looks askance at Clarke, at the now thoughtful set of her mouth. “You probably think that’s harsh, but it’s the mentality I had to adopt to win.”

“No, I mean, I understand. I’ve worked with track athletes and swimmers, too. With footballers… there’s camaraderie in team sports and a degree of shared responsibility for performance. But in tennis, you’re utterly reliant upon yourself.”

Lexa gives a shallow nod.

“To be a champion is to be alone,” she says distantly, her gaze fixed on the looming structure of the London Eye up ahead.

“Another Titus-ism?” 

Clarke’s tone is disparaging and Lexa can easily visualise the eye roll concealed by dark glasses.

“He helped transform my game. Whatever our differences, I’ll always be grateful that he saw something special in me.”

“It doesn’t excuse his controlling behaviour.”

Lexa gently tugs Clarke aside, out of the way of the other pedestrians that swarm the busy footpath. She pushes her Ray-Bans up into her hair so Clarke can see her eyes, see that she’s earnest.

“Trust me, I’m not defending him. Far from it. Seems like we’re always butting heads over one thing or another these days.” She glances away with a weary sigh then back to Clarke. “Part of the reason I took this time off was to allow me some breathing room to think about the support team I have in place.”

Clarke studies Lexa for a second. 

“You’re considering replacing him as your coach.”

“Amongst other possibilities.” 

Her answer is deliberately vague. Because the truth is, she’s not yet ready or willing to share the half-baked ideas taking shape in her mind. Not until she’s had a chance to speak with Indra, at least. For now, Clarke seems willing to accept this at face value and lets the subject drop.

“While we’re here,” Clarke reaches into her bag and produces her phone, “shall we grab a picture with this glorified Ferris wheel behind us?”

She slings an arm around Lexa’s waist and huddles closer, pressing cheek to cheek, angling the front facing camera until both their faces and part of the Eye is visible in frame—Lexa giving a full-lipped smile and Clarke with her tongue caught cheekily between her teeth.

After taking the snap, Clarke peers at the screen and makes a disgruntled noise. “It’s grossly unfair how photogenic you are. Honestly, I think I hate you a little bit.”

“Clarke,” Lexa says with a shake of her head and a short laugh. “You’re being ridiculous.”

She leans in to get a better look herself and the thought that sticks in her mind (vanity aside) is how good, how _right_ they look together. How she has a sudden desire to document all these tiny, everyday moments with Clarke, no matter how mundane or trivial.

“Well, you’re ridiculously pretty.”

“And you’re stupidly gorgeous, so I guess we’re even,” Lexa counters. “Send it to me?”

“New phone background, hm?” Clarke teases, but she does as Lexa asks within a few quick taps.

Once the image comes through via WhatsApp Lexa goes to the wallpaper settings on her phone. She lingers for a second over the existing one, a pixelated photo of her scrawny fifteen-year-old self grinning broadly beside Serena Williams at a tennis camp in Florida. That five-minute encounter with her idol—someone she still considers to be the greatest female player in the history of the sport—was arguably the most formative experience of her young life. She shook like a leaf the entire time but she also drew strength and so much inspiration from the few words of encouragement Serena gave her. For years this photo has served as a touchstone and a talisman, a reminder of how far she’s come and how far she has to go.

Now she finds she has a brand new source of motivation. 

Decisively, she chooses Clarke’s snap from the camera roll and sets it as both the lock screen and the home screen. 

“So… are we going on this ride?” she asks, pocketing her phone and squinting towards the London Eye. “The line’s getting pretty long.”

“Um…” A slightly panicked look passes over Clarke’s features, the frozen smile on her face more resembling a grimace. “No, that wasn’t part of the plan for today.”

“What? Afraid of heights, Clarke?” Lexa asks, flicking an eyebrow at her in playful inquiry. A beat passes, during which Clarke remains conspicuously silent. “ _Oh_ , you are.”

“I simply prefer my feet to be firmly on solid ground.”

For some reason, Clarke’s evasiveness only makes Lexa even more endeared.

“You can hold on tight to me if you get scared. I won’t judge you.” 

She slowly drapes her arms around Clarke’s shoulders. Despite the thin purse of her lips, Clarke allows Lexa to hug her nearer. 

“Tempting as it is as an excuse to feel you up in public, it’s not happening.”

Clarke’s fingers slip into the back pockets of Lexa’s cut-offs and Lexa’s smile stretches wider.

“That’s too bad. I like the idea of you being under my protection.”

“I like the idea of being under you, full stop. But if you coerce me into boarding that death trap over there, you can kiss goodbye to those orgasms I mentioned earlier.”

Lexa gapes in faux shock.

Clarke shrugs. “Your choice.”

Jaw promptly snapping shut, Lexa presses her lips together. “Where’s next on the itinerary?”

  
  
  


***

  
  


It’s while they’re wandering around the grounds of the Tower of London, Lexa having just had her picture taken with a Beefeater guard—making Clarke snort by pulling a gangsta pose beside him—that she starts to feel the strain, a dull ache in her hamstring that causes her to pull up short.

True to her promise, she doesn’t keep it to herself.

And Clarke is instantly solicitous, finding somewhere for Lexa to sit and stretch out her leg, crouching down beside her to place gentle hands on the underside of her thigh. Kneading with slow, purposeful movements, watching Lexa’s face closely for any flicker of discomfort. After a minute or two Clarke eases off the pressure, running a soothing palm back and forth over the length of the muscle until Lexa relaxes.

“Better?”

Lexa nods. She cracks a small smile. “I’m lucky to have your magic hands at my beck and call.”

Clarke bends to press a quick kiss to Lexa’s kneecap before she stands up and the casual affection in the gesture makes Lexa's heartbeat quicken. 

“True. How ever will you manage without me?”

She looks at Clarke, a sudden frog in her throat, because she’s been wondering the same thing. But she doesn’t get to dwell on it, distracted instead by the bright smile that steals across Clarke’s lips, the sparkle in her eyes as she offers a hand to help Lexa up.

“Shall we grab something to eat? It must be overdue time to feed that prodigious appetite of yours.”

Lexa uses her hold on Clarke to pull her nearer, pleased by the soft hitch of Clarke’s breath when their hips align. “I am hungry, yes. Some food wouldn’t go amiss, too.”

The sly suggestiveness, the flex of Lexa’s brow earns a sigh and an eye roll, but a smile still plays at the corners of Clarke’s mouth. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Well, for starters—”

“Lunch first,” Clarke interrupts, enunciating with cut-glass precision. She gives a light squeeze around Lexa’s fingers. “There’s a nice Italian bistro not far from here. We can jump in a taxi.”

“It’s fine, I can walk.” Off the hard stare she receives, Lexa wilts a little. She nods in deference. “Or a cab is equally acceptable.”

“Correct answer.”

By the time they arrive Lexa is actually starving. The near constant low rumble of her stomach during the ride to the restaurant had raised a chortle from Clarke, which Lexa had shrugged off with a sheepish smile. Now ensconced in a quiet corner booth and poring over the menu, the delicious aromas wafting over from nearby tables making her mouth water, she wants to order one of everything. In the end, she opts for the Tuscan chicken skillet with an artichoke salad while Clarke settles on the shrimp scampi linguini and a side of ciabatta to mop up the sauce. They also get a bottle of the house white to share and after only a few sips on an empty stomach, Lexa already begins to feel looser. 

“I feel like I’m leading you astray,” Clarke says, nodding towards the wine glass in Lexa’s hand.

Lexa hums. “In more ways than one.”

They exchange a loaded glance, the kind that brings a flush of heat to Lexa’s body. She drops her gaze to the flickering tea light between them. When she chances a look up again Clarke’s eyes are fixed intently on her mouth and arousal sparks in Lexa’s belly, flaring bright and quick like the strike of a match.

“Clarke.”

“Hmm?” 

Distracted, there’s a delay before Clarke drags her eyes up to meet Lexa’s. They’re glazed over, pupils enlarged in the low light, and Lexa isn’t ashamed to admit, “I’m trying _so_ hard not to launch myself over the table at you. But if you keep staring at me that way…”

Clarke feigns innocence, running one finger around the rim of her glass. “Which way would that be?”

“You know.”

They share a long, meaningful look. One that warms every inch of Lexa’s skin and has her entertaining thoughts of skipping out on this meal. 

It’s only when the waiter returns with a basket of assorted freshly-baked bread rolls that the spell is broken. 

Clarke clears her throat discreetly and murmurs a low, “thank you.” 

She and Lexa each take a gulp of wine, cheeks pink as he walks away. When their gazes catch again, neither can suppress a smile at their own absurdity.

“So…” Clarke reaches across the table to tangle her fingers with Lexa’s. “Do you have anything scheduled for the rest of the week?”

“Not a lot. I mean, I want to find a local gym to work on my rehab exercises. The house has some equipment but I’d prefer more space.”

Clarke nods. “Lincoln speaks highly of the one he goes to in Balham.” She rubs her thumb across Lexa’s knuckles. “I could go along, too. Keep an eye on you. Make sure you’re not exerting yourself too much.”

“Sure, Clarke. And it’s nothing to do with the fact you’ll get to see me covered in sweat, huh?”

“I won’t deny it has its appeal.”

“Uh huh. Well, other than that, I have an interview with The Guardian on Friday. They’re doing this profile on out athletes as part of a broader ‘It Gets Better’ series of articles aimed at LGBTQ youth.”

“Oh, wow. Lexa, that’s fantastic.”

“Yeah, I was honoured to be asked. I just hope they don’t probe too much about what happened at Wimbledon,” she adds ruefully. “I want to give these kids hope, not make them even more fucking depressed.”

The clumsy attempt at humour falls flat and the glow of sympathy in Clarke’s gaze is a little too much to meet. 

Lexa’s throat constricts and she swallows against the tightness. She looks down at their hands resting on the starched white tablecloth, Clarke’s skin pale against her own, and she feels comforted somehow. She rallies, dispelling the maudlin thoughts and her natural inclination to brood.

“Anyway, I have nothing else planned. If you want to keep me captive in your bed then I won’t object. I know you can’t resist all this.”

“Pfft.”

Clarke picks up the entire bread basket threateningly, as if she intends to lob it at Lexa, but the waiter comes back bearing steaming plates. As soon as the food is set down in front of them, the flirtation takes a temporary back seat.

  
  
  


***

  
  


They’re polishing off the last dregs of the wine when a man with a big moustache approaches their booth. He looks like one of the Super Mario Brothers in an ill-fitting suit.

“Pardon me, Miss Woods?”

Lexa offers a curious smile. “Yes?”

“I’m the manager. I hope you enjoyed the meal.”

“Oh, we did.” She shares a quick glance with Clarke. “It was wonderful, thank you.”

“I’m sorry to intrude but I was hoping we could get a photo with you? Please, if you don’t mind. It’s a long-standing tradition whenever we have the pleasure of having someone so illustrious dine with us.”

He gestures towards the framed black and white photos on the wall behind him. Lexa hadn’t paid any attention to the decor but, on closer inspection, she sees a bunch of famous faces she recognises—and plenty more that she doesn’t. There’s Dame Maggie Smith, Rutger Hauer, and Sir Paul McCartney, amongst others.

She can’t help feeling flattered. “Of course, I’d be happy to.”

The manager claps his hands together, overjoyed. She joins him and a few of the wait staff and chefs at the front of the bistro to pose for the picture. When she returns to the table Clarke‘s wearing a bemused expression.

“Illustrious, indeed. Now you’re going to be unbearably smug for the rest of the day.”

“Hey, his choice of words, not mine,” Lexa defends but she’s unable to curb her smile. “This is one of the reasons I like you. How completely unaffected you are by my tennis stardom.”

She’s being facetious, because she doesn’t think of herself in those terms at all, but she definitely enjoys Clarke’s dramatic eye roll. 

“Since you think you’re such a big deal, did I tell you I once had a very high profile Premier League footballer as a client? He used to come in via the side entrance wearing a disguise and make appointments at odd hours because he was always being followed by the paparazzi. I had to sign three different non-disclosure agreements: one for him, one for his club, and one for the FA.”

Lexa gapes at her, the wind thoroughly taken out of her sails even though she was mostly joking. “Who was it?”

“Sorry, I’m not at liberty to namedrop.” Clarke gives a nonchalant shrug. “Although he did recommend our clinic to most of his teammates.”

“No, but, really, who?”

“My lips are sealed.”

Then Lexa sees the flicker of mischief in blue eyes and she pouts.

“I’m going to get this out of you.”

“You can try but you won’t succeed.”

“We’ll see.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


“At least tell me which team he plays for?”

Silence.

“It’s a London club, right?”

Clarke only maintains an enigmatic smile and it drives Lexa crazy, frustration and attraction itching under her skin for the entirety of the journey to Clarke’s apartment.

“Arsenal? Chelsea?” Lexa asks as they climb the stairs. “Tottenham? Um… what’s that other one—oh, West Ham!”

Clarke turns the key in the lock and throws a look over her shoulder. “Lex, give it up. Physio/client confidentiality is the bedrock of clinical practice. I can’t divulge any information, even if I wasn’t bound by those NDAs.”

Lexa follows her inside, casting a glance around for the cat. Bellamy’s on a plump cushion on the couch, head tucked close to his hind legs, but he startles at their entrance and emits a low “mrow” of displeasure. Then promptly rolls over to curl into a tight ball.

“Come on, not even a hint?”

“While I admire your tenacity, I’d prefer if you redirected your efforts elsewhere,” Clarke says as she drops her bag and keys on the kitchen counter.

She turns around, both hands gripping the edge of the counter. Lifts her chin, something challenging in her stare.

Lexa advances, a slight swagger in her step. She crowds in, braces her arms on either side of Clarke’s waist, trapping her in place. “I think you underestimate how determined I can be.”

“Actually, I’m counting on it.”

Clarke takes a fistful of Lexa’s shirt and tugs her closer until hips and stomachs collide and a warm rush of breath gets caught between the surge of their mouths meeting.

The kiss doesn’t break as Clarke’s arm wraps around Lexa’s neck. Not when Lexa’s hands wander under Clarke’s skirt to clutch at her ass. Or when Lexa’s thumbs hook into Clarke’s underwear and she shoves the low-rise cotton briefs down Clarke’s thighs. 

It only falters once Lexa drags her fingertips along the sensitive skin of Clarke’s inner thigh, skimming higher to seek out the wetness she instinctively knows she’ll find there.

And when she does, Clarke gasps hotly into Lexa’s mouth, tilting her hips forward. They remain like that, suspended for a moment of stillness.

“Was it Fábregas?”

“ _Lexa_.”

“Okay, fine. I won’t ask again.” 

Lexa coaxes Clarke into another kiss. Gentler. Less urgent now. She runs her fingers over Clarke, sliding through the slick again and again.

“What do you want?” Lexa asks, tipping her head to the other side. She snares Clarke’s bottom lip between her teeth then releases it. “Tell me.”

She has a reasonable idea already. 

The way Clarke begins to meet the slow strokes is a dead giveaway but there’s something about hearing someone articulate their desires aloud. The intimacy of it, the vulnerability and trust it demands, the sheer fucking brain-melting hotness of Clarke spelling out her need for Lexa’s touch in no uncertain terms.

“I just—God, I want you,” Clarke manages to get out between kisses. She lays her hand against Lexa’s cheek and whispers, “Take me to bed.”

“Gladly.” 

But Lexa idles, angling in to sample Clarke’s mouth again. Drunk on the taste of her and how ardent Clarke is in return, how she guides their lips back together every time Lexa strays. 

So it’s a safe bet that Clarke isn’t expecting Lexa to sweep her up into her arms and carry her bridal-style across the room.

“Lexa! What—put me down this instant. You’ll hurt yourself!” 

“I’m following your instructions.”

“That wasn’t a literal request.” 

“It’s romantic.”

“It’s bloody idiotic, is what it is!”

Despite her protests, Clarke clings to Lexa’s neck. They make it the few feet to the bed without any mishaps and Lexa places her precious cargo on the middle of the mattress before she climbs on herself, swinging a leg over Clarke’s thighs.

Glittering blue eyes glare up at her, and Lexa isn’t entirely certain whether Clarke is veering more on the side of angry or turned on. Either way, she looks beautiful and Lexa is entranced.

“Just because I’m going to let you have your way with me now, don’t think we won’t be discussing this recklessness later,” Clarke warns. She prods Lexa in the ribs for added emphasis. 

Lexa nods. “I hear you.” 

She gathers the hem of her shirt. Peels it up and off. Smirks when Clarke’s gaze drifts over the newly revealed skin, tongue darting out to swipe across parted lips. 

“But when I’m finished with you, Clarke? You’ll forget why you were even mad at me in the first place. In fact…” Lexa reaches behind her back to unhook her bra. She flings it away. “You won’t be able to remember your own name, nevermind this supposedly world-famous soccer player you won’t tell me about.”

Pitch dark eyes are unabashedly stuck on her boobs now. 

“You are such a brat.” 

“You dig it.”

Clarke links her hands behind Lexa’s neck, pulling her down until Lexa is draped along the whole length of her body.

“Mm. The jury’s still out on that one.”

“Then I’ve got some convincing to do,” Lexa says as she leans in, laughing quietly into the press of their lips.

  
  
  


***

  
  


For days the city swelters in the endless heat, the air thick and heavy, everyone moving sluggishly through the humidity as though wading through molasses.

Clarke takes Lexa to delis and juice bars, quaint secondhand bookstores and antique shops. They wander Camden Market and Covent Garden and the streets of Soho with Clarke’s arm looped around Lexa’s waist, Lexa’s draped across Clarke’s shoulders, canoodling at pedestrian crossings while they wait for the signal to change.

In the evenings it’s gastro pubs with overcrowded beer gardens or rooftop bars crammed with hipsters drinking cocktails from mason jars, intimate dinners in Turkish and Ethiopian and Nepalese restaurants—a whole odyssey of authentic world cuisine over the course of a week.

(And sex. 

So much sex.

Probably more sex than Lexa’s had in the past five years combined. The cobwebs well and truly blasted away, as Anya would crudely say.)

Under Clarke’s care and attention, Lexa gradually rebuilds her hamstring strength. As much as Clarke grumps about being up at “an obscene hour” while she’s on vacation, she accompanies Lexa to the gym without fail, supervising the optimal loading exercises. Reps of prone hip extensions and glute bridges, squats and lunges, sideways jogging and knee-high skips. They do rehab on a day on/day off basis to allow Clarke to monitor any symptoms; maintain a regular program of low-stress stretches and isometric contractions and deep tissue massage. When Clarke gives the green light for Lexa to ease back into her daily runs, she starts to feel more like herself again, finding certainty in the structure of routine. 

It’s on one such morning—buoyant and energised after completing a full 5k—that Lexa lets herself into Clarke’s apartment, balancing a styrofoam cup of coffee, a smoothie and a bag of bagels from the local artisanal bakery; a celebratory treat.

The curtains are still drawn but they’re thin enough for sunlight to filter through, casting a golden glow over the occupants of the bed. Huddled under the covers, all that’s visible of Clarke is the mop of blonde hair on the pillow and the pale expanse of her back where the sheets have slipped down. Bellamy is tucked into Clarke’s side, his chest puffed out, a possessive paw on her hip.

Once the aroma of freshly brewed coffee reaches her nostrils, Clarke soon stirs. She rolls over, displacing the cat from his comfy spot, bleary eyes blinking open to peer at Lexa and the paper bag dangling between her thumb and forefinger.

“Guess who bought breakfast,” Lexa singsongs. 

“You’re an angel,” Clarke says through an enormous yawn, her voice holding that deeper, roughened quality that makes Lexa’s stomach coil every time she hears it. Clarke lifts her arms above her head, stretching out the kinks of sleep with a quiet groan. “Actually, no. Redact that. I forgot I’m miffed at you for waking me at the crack of dawn all week.”

Lexa puts everything down on the kitchen table and crosses over to the bed, giving Bellamy a wide berth as he slinks towards his water bowl.

“But the post-run rubdown is a pretty good consolation, right?” Lexa says, untying her running shoes and toeing them off before she vaults onto the bed.

She kneels astride Clarke and gathers the rumpled sheets in each fist. 

“I mean, putting your hands on my body... Touching me when I’m all hot and sticky and drenched in sweat...” 

Lexa tugs on the covers, revealing more of Clarke’s chest. Greedy eyes roam every inch of skin, fastening on the rosy tips of Clarke’s nipples as they harden under Lexa’s gaze. It’s enough of a distraction that she forgets where she was going with this until Clarke clears her throat. 

“Just saying, it has its perks.”

Clarke only makes a dubious sound but she trails her fingers up and down Lexa’s abs, a soft smile on her lips, eyes lidded and dark and so magnetic. 

They stare at one another, equally enamoured, and Lexa feels a swell of emotion in her chest, squeezing around her heart with every breath she takes. 

And it hits her hard. 

The realisation that she’s going to miss these mornings. 

Waking up too warm because they’re pressed so tightly together, limbs entangled, Clarke’s hair in her face, the damn cat staring daggers at her from the foot of the bed.

Clarke tilts her head. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Lexa smiles. Leans down to kiss the slight crinkle between Clarke’s brows. “Coffee’s getting cold.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


While Lexa rinses their breakfast plates and stacks them in the dish rack to drip-dry, Clarke makes the bed, straightening the sheets and plumping the pillows.

It’s an unspoken groove they’ve fallen into, and although Lexa knows she shouldn’t allow herself to become too accustomed, she enjoys the simple domesticity of it all. How they move around each other with ease as they tidy the small apartment. Now and then pausing to trail a hand over a hip or shoulder or to steal a quick kiss. Casual touches that nonetheless leave Lexa buzzing. Just being around Clarke, sharing this modest space with her, doing mindless chores together makes Lexa _happy_ in a way she can’t quantify.

She’s humming under her breath, wiping clean the kitchen counters, when she hears a low curse. 

Looks over to see Clarke holding up one of the Equality sneakers that Nike sent prior to Wimbledon. Lexa’s new favourites.

“Um…” 

Clarke doesn’t have to elaborate. The trepidation in her wide eyes speaks volumes, as does the chewed laces and what appears to be a splatter of brown vomit over the toe shell.

Lexa crosses the room within two strides to seize the puke-encrusted shoe from Clarke’s grasp.

“How did he even get into the fucking box?” Lexa demands, failing to keep the heat of anger out of her tone. “Jesus Christ, I’m supposed to rep these on Instagram!”

“Any cardboard receptacle is fair game to a cat, Lexa. Look—we can clean them up, swap out the laces, and they’ll be good as new.”

“They’re ruined!” 

Lexa waves the sneaker for emphasis and that’s when she notices the long, skinny pellet of compacted fur lodged inside the shoe. It looks like a hairy turd. 

She chokes in disgust.

From his perch on the windowsill, Bellamy sends them a spectacularly dismissive look before he turns his attention back to the world outside.

“They’re just trainers.”

“Just—!” 

A muscle ticks in Lexa’s cheek. She clenches her jaw and exhales slowly through her nose. Counts to five in her head before she feels calm enough to continue without blowing a gasket. 

“If this was an isolated incident I could _maybe_ excuse it, Clarke. But he tore a hole in my best running shorts and sprayed on my racket bag last week!”

“He’s marking his territory.” Clarke spreads her hands. “It means he considers your things his things.”

Lexa glowers.

Even so, she pulls in a breath when Clarke steps up to her, relieving Lexa of the sneaker and setting it aside to deal with later. 

“He’s terrorising me.”

Clarke pulls Lexa closer by the hoodie strings, smiling now, and it’s a struggle for Lexa to cling onto her annoyance. Especially when she has a perfect view down the front of Clarke’s shirt.

“He saw me doing nasty things to you and now he’s taking his revenge by destroying my stuff,” Lexa grumbles.

“Oh, Lex.” 

Clarke’s husky laugh and twinkling eyes go some way to further neutralising Lexa’s mood. She lets her hands drift to Clarke’s waist, pushing under soft cotton to find softer skin.

“I mean, you asked for it. He knows that, right?”

“Maybe he doesn’t like how loud you are...”

“Maybe, but you definitely do.”

Another tug on the hoodie brings Lexa’s mouth into contact with Clarke’s. Their lips part and open and meet again with gentle insistence. Clarke reaches up to wrap her fingers around Lexa’s neck, sliding through the loose curls at the nape that are still slightly damp with sweat from her earlier run.

“I appreciate this senseless destruction of your property is upsetting but, I’m sorry, you’re very cute when you’re in a huff,” Clarke says before pressing in to kiss Lexa once more, other hand going to Lexa’s jaw. 

“Yeah, well, your cat’s going to wreck my sponsorship deal. My relative cuteness will be small consolation once Nike drops me.” 

But Lexa’s words lack any ire now. She’s too focused on kissing Clarke’s throat as they shuffle backwards across the room.

“It’s less cute when you’re being dramatic about purely hypothetical scenarios.” 

Lexa nips at Clarke’s collarbone to get back at her teasing. Satisfied by the gasp she receives and the way Clarke’s nails drag against her nape.

“You knew what you were signing up for.” She latches her mouth to Clarke’s pulse point. Feels the flutter beneath her lips. “Besides, I—”

“Lex?” Clarke uses her grip to draw Lexa’s face back up. “Stop talking. The only words I want to hear from your mouth for a while are: fuck, yes, please, harder, and my name.”

They hold each other’s stare for a beat.

Eyes glazed; mouths wet.

“Now who’s the brat?” Lexa says.

“What can I say, you’re rubbing off on me.”

She smirks. “I hope to be soon, yes.”

Then she tackles Clarke onto the couch, swallowing her little yelp of surprise.

  
  
  


***

  
  


“I must stress again that you’re under no obligation to go through with this,” Clarke says, stopping short on the sidewalk, just a few yards from the restaurant entrance. Flamenco guitar music and the low hubbub of conversation filters out onto the street. “It’s not too late to make our excuses.”

“What? But we’re already here,” Lexa says with an incredulous laugh. 

She steps in front of Clarke, dips her head to meet skittish eyes. While Clarke seemed a bit antsy on the subway ride, this is a whole other level of nerves.

“Unless you don’t wanna show off this hot piece you’ve been banging…”

Clarke sighs. “I just—He’s been badgering me non-stop to meet you and it’s—I don’t know—”

“Too soon to introduce me to your friends?” Lexa hangs her head and presses her lips together. She gives a tiny shrug. “It’s okay. I get it.”

“Lex. No. That’s not it at all.” Fingers wrap around Lexa’s own and squeeze gently. She looks up and watches Clarke take a heavy breath. “Linc and I go way back. We stayed on the same floor in the halls of residence at uni. He knows things. Embarrassing things. And alcohol tends to loosen his lips.”

“ _Ohh_.” Lexa can’t keep an impish grin off her face now. “So he has some juicy stories to share. I see, I see.”

Clarke’s eyes narrow. “Actually, forget it. I’m keeping you two _far_ apart. I don’t need him spilling my youthful indiscretions.”

She spins on her heel to walk away but Lexa pulls her back around, smile broadening. “Now I’m even more intrigued.”

The purse of Clarke’s lips, the crease between her brows only adds to Lexa’s delight.

“I think you’re holding out on me, Griffin. The footballer, the college hijinks. What other secrets are you keeping?”

“Other than my fondness for knitting? Nothing.” 

Clarke steps around Lexa, tugging on their arms as she heads for the door. She pauses at the threshold, blocking Lexa’s path before they go inside.

“I should warn you, Octavia is… well, she can be a tad abrasive.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


“So, _this_ is the fandango you’ve been drowning in for weeks,” the short brunette remarks, her thick Irish(?) brogue nearly incomprehensible to Lexa’s ears—admittedly, the nuances of British regional accents are lost on her.

“O!” Clarke snaps, thumping her purse down on the bartop. “I’m sorry,” she says to Lexa, a blush on her cheeks. “Octavia was raised by wolves for the first sixteen years of her life so she never learned the basics of polite conversation.”

Octavia merely shrugs and resumes slurping her cocktail. Beside her, a guy with a buzzcut and muscles upon bulging muscles flashes an apologetic smile. 

He offers his hand to Lexa, his grip surprisingly gentle despite his burly physique. “Hey, I’m Lincoln. Great to meet you, Lexa.”

She warms to him immediately, sensing his easy-going spirit. Octavia, in spite of her diminutive stature, exudes a vaguely threatening spikiness that Lexa isn’t sure how to counter. Not to mention her eyebrow game is _fierce_.

Deciding she’s on safer ground with Lincoln, Lexa returns his smile. “Likewise. And congratulations on your engagement.”

Somehow he beams even brighter as he thanks her, turning his gaze towards the woman at his side, adoration shining through every pore. Octavia seems to soften, leaning into him. 

It feels like intruding on a private moment between the couple so Lexa averts her eyes, only to catch Clarke studying her, wearing an expression identical to Lincoln’s.

It shakes Lexa to her foundations. 

Makes her heart race.

Because there’s nothing ambiguous about that look. Nothing at all.

  
  
  


***

  
  


Over a pitcher of margaritas and a dozen small sharing plates of tapas, Clarke’s friends gush about their vacation in the Maldives. 

Much as Lexa tries to be attentive, nodding and smiling along to the unfolding tale of Lincoln’s elaborate proposal and how Octavia scuppered his carefully concocted plans at every turn, she’s hyper-aware of Clarke sitting next to her—the slow caress of a thumb over her knee; the warmth of Clarke’s thigh against her own; how Clarke’s eyes crinkle as she laughs, the raspy sound of it sending a tingle down Lexa’s neck.

Mostly, she’s still reeling from earlier.

Stuck on the memory of the glow in Clarke’s eyes while they chatted at the bar waiting for their table, looking like the whole world revolved around the girl on her arm.

And now Lexa just wants to get out of here. Whisk Clarke home and ask her if she feels even a fraction of what Lexa is feeling, this emotion that burrows deeper into her chest with each passing moment. 

In less than two days she’s due to board a flight to Miami, a subject they’ve both actively avoided talking about so far, and she needs to know. If Clarke is fully in it with her. If they have the mutual conviction and desire to build this into something real and lasting.

But, for now, Lexa can wait; bide her time a little longer if it means she gets to see this different side of Clarke, playing off these two people she shares so much history with.

Lexa tunes back into the conversation as the laughter dies down and Octavia launches into an anecdote about Lincoln’s queasiness on the boat trip to their beach villa. 

(“Spewing chunks over the side, so he was.”

Clarke groans, “Not while we’re eating, O.”

And Lincoln endures the ribbing that follows with good grace and a sheepish smile.)

In the ensuing lull, they all pick at their food, appetite somewhat diminished by Octavia’s graphic retelling of the ordeal. 

Clarke notices Lexa’s reticence and nudges her shoulder, asking in a hushed voice, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah. It’s just, those patatas bravas look a little too much like…” 

“Ugh, don’t.”

Their shared grimace morphs into a sloping grin. 

Lexa reaches for Clarke’s hand under the table, threading their fingers together. Her stomach swoops at the soft glimmer in Clarke’s gaze, those blue eyes moving slowly over her features, no less captivated than Lexa is. Both so absorbed in one another that they’re oblivious to their dinner companions observing them with sly smirks.

Eventually Lincoln clears his throat.

They startle at the sound. 

“Let’s order another pitcher, yeah?” His dark eyes sparkle with mischief. “You two look fairly thirsty from where I’m sitting.”

“Linc,” Clarke huffs, flushing prettily, but she doesn’t extract her hand from Lexa’s.

“Youse are drooling more than a fucking Saint Bernard.” Octavia launches a balled-up napkin at Clarke. “Here, mop yourselves up.”

Clarke tosses it back, along with a withering glare. “Ha fucking ha. Anyway,” she drawls, “tell us more about your adventures. I saw on Snapchat there was a snorkelling incident?”

“Oh, God, no.” Lincoln covers his face with his palm and slouches lower into his seat.

One devastatingly on point eyebrow arches up as Octavia leans forward on her forearms. “Well…”

  
  
  


***

  
  


It’s past midnight when they stumble into the apartment, giggling, a bit worse for wear after that third pitcher of cocktails. 

“Shhh,” Clarke says, too loud. “You’ll wake Bell.”

“He can bite me.”

“Okay, that’s just an open invitation.”

Clarke slips off her heels with a quiet groan of relief and Lexa ambles up behind her, wrapping both arms around Clarke’s midsection.

“Can’t say I’ll miss him when I’m gone.”

“Oh? So what _will_ you miss?” Clarke asks, deceptively airy but Lexa sees through the pretence. 

She hugs Clarke tighter, presses a kiss to her temple.

“Hmm.” Lexa’s mouth grazes the edge of Clarke’s ear and she feels the slight shudder that goes through her. “Well… the pastries from that place around the corner are pretty awesome.”

Clarke turns, looping her own arms around Lexa’s shoulders. The whites of her eyes gleam in the darkness. “You do love those croissants.”

“I do,” Lexa nods. She wets her bottom lip, adds after a beat, “And then there’s you.”

She wishes Clarke’s face wasn’t half shrouded in shadow, because her expression is a mystery Lexa can’t decipher in the gloom.

“What about me?”

And, suddenly, Lexa feels much soberer than she did five minutes ago. 

She takes a measured breath. Wills herself to be courageous now. She owes it to herself to take this risk. 

“Ever since I was a kid, tennis was the be all and end all for me. My future was mapped out in accolades and prize money and endorsements. I thought success would bring me happiness if I just worked hard enough. But a month ago I met you and… something changed. I realised how fucking empty those things were when I had no one special to celebrate them with. Clarke, now that I’ve found you I don’t want to leave you behind.”

A soothing hand runs over Lexa’s shoulder, down to her collarbone. “Don’t think of it like that,” Clarke murmurs. “We’ll see each other again. It’s only goodbye for now.”

While Lexa had fully intended to put this off until the morning, once she’d had an opportunity to confirm things with Indra over the phone, maybe there’s no such thing as perfect timing for pitching something so life-altering.

She swallows hard and, with a downward glance, says, “Does it have to be, though?”

A crease lines Clarke’s forehead, visible even in the semi-dark. She opens her mouth to speak but Lexa jumps in before Clarke is able to get a word out. 

“What if I said I want you to oversee my PT on a more permanent basis?”

A slow blink. “I—what?”

Lexa draws in a gulp of air then takes the plunge, forcing herself to meet wide eyes. 

“I’d like you to join my team.” Off Clarke’s mute astonishment, Lexa adds quickly, “We can work out the finer details later, but, as a starting point, I’ll double what you’re earning right now. Treble, even. Whatever it takes. You’ll have your own condo, a car, full medical and dental, 401k, all the paid vacation days you want.”

(Somewhere, working late in an office in downtown Miami, Indra probably senses a disturbance in the Force and bristles.)

“I’m…” Clarke starts and stops, stunned. Her jaw works. She shakes her head then seems to find her voice again. “That’s really very generous. And I’m immensely flattered but, Lexa, I—”

“You don’t have to give me an answer yet. Let the idea percolate.”

Clarke stares and the seconds drag. She doesn’t say anything. The longer the silence goes on, the more Lexa worries she jumped the gun by springing this on Clarke without warning.

Her stomach drops like a bowling ball when Clarke withdraws and pads across to the kitchen to flick on a switch, flooding the room with light. She sits at the table, looking dazed.

Then, “Join your team. What exactly does that entail?” 

Lexa takes the chair opposite Clarke. She regards the other woman, heart thudding hard and fast against her sternum. Somehow she manages to keep the nerves under control when she speaks. 

“Travelling with me on the Tour, being responsible for my treatment, observing my training. In the off-season, you’d stay in Miami but you’d have plenty of opportunities to work with other athletes. Build a client base.” She tries on her most disarming smile. “Or bum around the beach and learn to surf, if you prefer.” 

The apartment is quiet except for the low electrical hum of the fridge, the distant sounds of traffic and rowdy drunk people spilling out of bars onto the street. 

”It’s just, it’s a lot to think about,” Clarke says at last. She sounds conflicted; Lexa can see it in her gaze too. “I have a _life_ here. Friends. Family. My job. Granted, the footballers are often a giant pain in the arse but, otherwise, I love working at the clinic.” She gestures around her. “This is my home. And—oh fuck, I’m a terrible mum—Bellamy!”

She seems horrified that she only mentioned the cat as an afterthought.

“Bring him, then. If that’s what it takes to clinch the deal, I’ll put up with your pet judging me.” 

The joke at least raises a smile, an encouraging sign. 

Lexa takes Clarke’s hand, ignoring the slight tremble of her own fingers. God, even walking onto Centre Court with a capacity crowd is less daunting than confronting this head on.

Because she’s never had anything like this before. Only a handful of short-lived whatevers that seldom lasted beyond a weekend, nothing she considered more than a brief outlet for blowing off steam. And years ago, Costia. Sweet-natured Costia, a regrettable casualty of Lexa’s fierce ambition and drive to win. 

With Clarke, it’s different. 

Bigger; altogether scarier.

Maybe Lexa should be more cautious of just _how_ vast this feels, how quickly Clarke’s become embedded in her life.

But she’s in too deep to fight against it.

“I know it’s only been a few weeks but there’s something between us, something really great.” She focuses on their tangled fingers before locking eyes with Clarke once more. “Whether you accept the job offer or not, it won’t change the fact that I’m crazy about you.”

The corner of Clarke’s mouth lifts. Her eyes are brimming with tenderness. “You didn’t have to invent a fake job just to ask me to go steady.”

“Why do anything the easy way?” A smile burrows into Lexa’s cheeks, a little bashful, a lot relieved. “Although, the position is legit. I could use your expertise on my staff.”

Clarke gnaws on her lip but makes no further comment. In the quiet, Lexa can almost hear the cogs turning. She resists the urge to push and cajole, knowing that exerting pressure will only cause Clarke to dig her heels in.

“So,” Lexa hedges after half a minute elapses, “about the other thing. Is that—I mean, are we—”

“Oh my God, Lex. Really?”

“Listen, I might have an ego and confidence to spare but when it comes to this stuff? I’m as useless as the next lesbian.”

With an eye roll, Clarke stands and rounds the table. She swings one leg over Lexa’s thighs and sinks onto her lap. 

“Alright, then. For the avoidance of doubt, I’ll spell it out.” Clarke cups Lexa’s cheeks in her hands. “You, Lexa Woods, are my girlfriend. Which means we’re in an exclusive romantic and sexual relationship until otherwise notified by either party. Am I making myself clear?”

An eager nod. “Perfectly.”

When Clarke kisses her, Lexa thinks she might burst because her heart is so full of feeling. She pours every ounce of it into their kiss, gathers Clarke closer in her arms to stave off all thoughts of imminent geographical separation.

If two nights is all they have left for who-knows-how-long, Lexa’s determined to make them count.

  
  
  


***

  
  


On Lexa’s final day in London, the skies are grey and overcast, even the weather outside contributing to the heaviness that pervades the apartment. 

She wakes Clarke with a kiss, careless of morning breath and, without a single word exchanged between them, descends her body. 

Lexa goes slow. 

Touches Clarke with gentle hands and a reverent mouth. 

She spends minutes on Clarke’s nipples alone, moving on only once Clarke’s breathing pattern changes, growing fast and shallow in that way Lexa recognises to mean an orgasm is approaching.

When she slides two fingers between Clarke’s legs, pushes inside on a shivery exhalation, Clarke is more primed to break apart than a 19 gauge racket strung with 60lb tension Kevlar and wielded by Madison Keys.

All it takes is a few smooth thrusts, Lexa’s tongue on Clarke’s clit. 

She comes with a hoarse cry, hands tangled up in Lexa’s hair.

Afterwards, they trade drowsy kisses, eyes half open and still holding traces of sleep. 

Lexa forgoes her run in favour of another tumble between the sheets. Blows off the gym so they can fuck against the fridge, on the couch, twice more in bed, and again in the shower. Trying to exhaust themselves to the point that they don’t have the energy to think about tomorrow. But the inevitable can only be delayed for so long. 

Lexa gathers her few belongings left here, the rest stored back at the house she’s barely set foot in for days.

“Do you want to come with me?” she asks, hitching the straps of the overnight bag higher up her shoulder.

From her place on the couch, Clarke glances up. She looks so pensive and Lexa wants to kiss the frown lines away. Which she would if it wasn’t for the creature currently occupying Clarke’s lap, staring at Lexa and purring like the smug little asshole he is.

Clarke scratches absently at Bellamy’s neck and the volume of purring increases. Paws flex against her thigh, toes spreading wide while he basks in the attention. 

“Could I have a couple of hours? Honestly, my head is a mess and I can’t guarantee I won’t snivel all over your beloved Nike gear.” 

They share a smile, small and soft and bittersweet. 

“Of course. Text me when you’re on your way?”

“I will.”

Lexa lingers in the open doorway, taking one last look around. Eyes drifting to the table where they first had sex, the rumpled bed in the corner, the couch they’ve laughed and cuddled and made out on more times than she can count. Finally landing on Clarke; this golden girl; this sass bucket extraordinaire, antithesis of a morning person that Lexa’s become hopelessly besotted with.

“Who’s my handsome prince?” Clarke coos, the way a doting parent talks to their baby and Bellamy preens under the praise.

Fuck, Lexa’s got it bad.

  
  
  


***

  
  


Everything is packed away by the time Clarke arrives, the only items left aside being some essential toiletries, underwear, comfy sweats and her favourite hoodie for travelling.

“Linc and O are on cat-sitting duty tonight,” Clarke informs Lexa as she steps inside and follows Lexa up to the master bedroom. “I thought we could order food in since I don’t plan on letting you out of bed apart from bathroom breaks.”

“Well, that’s one surefire way to give the delivery driver a heart attack,” Lexa tosses over her shoulder with a smirk. “Your epic sex hair is truly something to behold.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

Once they reach the top of the staircase, Clarke’s eyes shift towards the suitcases on the landing and the slight flinch doesn’t escape Lexa’s notice. She curses softly under her breath for not having had the sense to stash the luggage in one of the other bedrooms, out of sight.

Clarke punctures the awkwardness with a weak smile. “What are the odds that one of those cases is solely for your trainers?”

“You really think I’d trust an airline with my sneaker collection? I had most of them sent ahead by courier.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

And, as easily as that, the brief wobble is righted. 

Lexa takes Clarke by the wrist and leads her into the bedroom. Shuts the door and wastes no time in pressing her flush against the solid wood. The catch of Clarke’s breath, the slow flick of darkened eyes towards Lexa’s mouth makes her pulse leap. 

She angles in to kiss Clarke only to find herself pinned in a sudden reversal, firm hands on her shoulders and hips pushing into her own. She tips her head, an attempt to close the gap, but Clarke evades her at the last second. Each time Lexa cranes her neck to chase after soft lips, they prove frustratingly elusive. 

Stymied one too many times, she emits a low growl and a muttered, “Clarke.”

The answering lopsided grin is pure provocation. 

So Lexa clutches at Clarke’s waist, slides her palms down and around to reach Clarke’s ass, groping with enough enthusiasm that Clarke rises up on her toes, lips parting on a gasp. 

When Lexa swoops in this time, they meet in the middle with certainty. Mouths open. Swapping deep, searching kisses that leave Lexa electrified, arousal buzzing beneath her skin as they back up to the bed. They shed their clothes along the way, grappling with zips and buttons, clumsy in their haste, hands roaming over bare flesh then weaving into hair.

It’s possessive touches. Nails down spines. Thighs nudged apart. Ragged breaths and gritty words of encouragement. Lips searing into skin and fingers dipping low. They press inside in tandem, a shared groan stifled by the seal of their mouths. Finding synchronicity in the rolling motion of their hips as they work each other up to a fast climax.

Lexa’s the first to topple and Clarke swallows the keening wail that rips from her throat. 

She shudders through it, chest heaving. Loses the rhythm of her thrusts for a few seconds before she twists her wrist and doubles down, ignoring the strain in her forearm. Worth it for the way Clarke chants “oh, oh, oh” into the space between their mouths as she rocks into Lexa’s palm one final time.

They drink breathless kisses from each other as they wind down, never ceasing contact, palms stroking over hips and thighs. Lexa’s heart hardly slows it’s wild thump, pounding hard in her chest when she opens her eyes to peer at Clarke lying beneath her. Pupils large. Lids at half mast. Gazing back with an intensity that makes Lexa ache everywhere.

She can’t be blamed for blurting out the first unfiltered thing that comes to mind. 

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. If it doesn’t, if we can’t...” Her chin begins to quiver as a wave of emotion threatens to engulf her. “Clarke, I—”

“Lex, hey. Shh.” Clarke’s eyes dart around her face, as much a physical caress as the hands running up and down the small of her back. “Not now, okay?” A crooked smile settles on her lips. “Save the ugly crying for the morning.”

Lexa’s laugh is small and wobbly but she nods.

She allows herself to be drawn into a leisurely kiss that soon becomes heated. The sweep of Clarke’s tongue, the migration of greedy hands towards her butt manage to keep Lexa’s overactive mind at bay for the time being. 

Within moments she’s flat on her back, Clarke kneeling astride her, and Lexa blots out all thoughts except one: no matter what, she’s going to do everything in her power to keep Clarke in her life.

  
  
  


***

  
  


“Will you ring me once your flight gets in?” Clarke asks, cramming her hands into the back pockets of her skinny jeans.

She’s wearing Lexa’s funnel neck hoodie and Lexa doesn’t even care about this brazen act of theft because Clarke looks so fucking appealing in her clothes. When she walked out of the bathroom to see Clarke lounging on the bed, snug and cosy in the well-worn grey pullover, her heart spasmed so painfully she thought she was having a coronary. It took everything she had not to pounce. Nearly cancelled her travel plans there and then.

“Won’t it be super late for you?”

One shoulder lifts. “I doubt I’ll be able to sleep anyway.”

“Okay,” Lexa agrees softly.

And she promised herself she wouldn’t get overly emotional, but as she stands in the hallway waiting for the taxi to arrive, surrounded by cases, an unusually subdued Clarke shifting from foot to foot in front of her, Lexa feels the sting of tears behind her eyes.

“When do you need to know?” Clarke’s voice is a thick croak. She clears her throat. “About the job, I mean.” 

“There’s no deadline. Take however long you need.”

Clarke bobs her head in acknowledgement and looks away.

There’s a lull. A stilted silence that grows unbearably long. Lexa hates it; hates the thought of parting like this, with this chasm of unease that’s opened up between them. 

“Clarke,” she whispers, as if speaking any louder might cause whatever fragile hold she has on the situation to shatter.

Their eyes meet and something sharp twists in Lexa’s gut. With shaking hands, she reaches out. Touches Clarke’s jaw, traces the curve of her cheek, lets her fingers sink into mussed locks. She scans Clarke’s face, memorising every perfectly imperfect detail to sustain her for the drought ahead. 

Lexa is too overwhelmed to speak. 

Just so overcome and head over heels for this girl that the words she wants to say get stuck, coalescing into a hard lump in her throat.

They both step forward, moving into each other’s space. Clarke hides her face in Lexa’s neck, nose tucked below the hinge of Lexa’s jaw, lips pressed against her throat. 

Lexa’s arms go around Clarke immediately. Holding Clarke against her body. Gathering fistfuls of the hoodie and clinging on tight. Clarke smells of Lexa’s shampoo, the sweet fragrance at once familiar and disorienting when worn by someone else, and Lexa breathes it in, closing her eyes.

She’s never felt this way before, as though her heart is simultaneously soaring and splintering apart. It’s agony of the purest kind but she does her best to tuck the pain away, to keep her voice on an even keel.

“I’m going to be bugging you by text every day. Like, so much.”

“I can cope.” Clarke kisses the patch of skin beneath her lips and it sends a warm tingle down Lexa’s spine. “We could FaceTime. Tell each other about our days. Things may even get a bit frisky if you play your cards right.”

Lexa cracks a smile, unseen. “I’d like that.” She turns her head, nudging into soft strands of blonde. “And maybe I’ll see you soon?”

A gentle sigh. The tiniest rise and fall of Clarke’s head when she answers, “I hope so.” 

She pulls back and Lexa’s selfishly relieved to observe the wet sheen in Clarke’s gaze.

They kiss then, so tenderly, palms cradling each other’s jaws, and Lexa can’t stop herself from trembling.

The sudden blare of a horn outside causes them both to jump. But they lean in again quickly, lips meeting in one last desperate surge. Lexa, unaware of the single tear rolling down her cheek until she tastes the salt water in their kiss.

They move apart reluctantly, Clarke’s gaze flitting between Lexa’s eyes and her mouth. Soft and open and full of wonder. 

“Don’t forget about me.”

Lexa gives a watery, broken laugh. “As if I could.”

The taxi toots once more, emphatic this time, and she takes that as her cue. Clarke wipes Lexa’s cheeks for her, gentle fingers lingering on her skin before her hands drop away.

Sucking in a deep breath to collect herself, Lexa stoops to retrieve her carry-on and pulls her sunglasses down over red-rimmed eyes.

“Fábregas.”

Lexa stills. “What?”

“The player I treated. It _was_ Fábregas.”

And Clarke’s small, tremulous smile is the most beautiful sight in the world. Lexa’s in love with it.

She’s in love with Clarke.

  
  
  


***

  
  


Anya meets her in the Arrivals lounge.

Takes one look at the abject misery on Lexa’s face and mutters, “Oh, fuck.” With a sigh and a mild eye roll, she holds out her arms. “Bring it in, beanpole.” 

Lexa goes without objection, burying her nose into Anya’s shoulder. She sniffles once and Anya pats her back gingerly, like she’s handling an incendiary device that’s about to go off.

“She’ll be right,” Anya says, softer, and it only leaves Lexa more off-kilter. Because she isn’t used to her lifelong friend being anything less than an acerbic empathy vacuum. “C’mon, let's go sink a few. You look like you need a cold one or ten.”

Lexa steps back and shakes her head. “I’m wiped. Could you just drive me home? Please.”

Anya fixes her with a dubious stare but nods, grabbing the handle of the nearest suitcase.

Twenty minutes later, as they’re cruising down Ocean Drive in Anya’s gleaming white Jeep Wrangler, Lexa pulls out her phone to find a new photo message from Clarke.

Lexa had texted as soon as the plane taxied off the runway to let Clarke know she landed safely. The reply came within a minute: _call me when you can, I’ll still be up xx_

And now she stares at the screen, at the snap of Clarke’s pouting face half-hidden by a pillow. The comical jut of a petted lip is unbearably cute and Lexa smiles in spite of the heavy feeling in her chest.

She dashes off a quick response: _soon, Anya’s dropping me off xx_

Hesitates only a fraction of a second before she adds three heart eyes emojis.

Her face must be doing something because Anya peers over the top of her shades and says, “You’re gonna make me chunder all over the dash.”

Lexa only broods and stares straight ahead as they zoom past lush canopies of palm trees and the whitewashed Art Deco architecture of SoBe’s beachfront.

“Are you gonna spill the beans? Or do I have to pull over and put you in a headlock?”

She shifts around, uncomfortable with the balmy tropical heat that makes her shirt stick to her back.

“I offered her a spot on my staff.”

“And?”

“And she’s considering her options.”

Anya glances over again. “That’s a good thing, yeah?”

“She didn’t say yes.”

“She didn’t say no either, so why have you got a face like a chook’s arse?”

Lexa snaps, “Because I’m here and my girlfriend’s over there, and I don’t know when we’ll be in the same time zone again!”

“Christ, okay. Don’t flip your lid,” Anya mutters, tightening her grip on the wheel. She switches the blinker on for the upcoming right turn, her mouth pursed into a thin line.

After a long stretch of prickly silence, Lexa sighs. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day and I’m really fucking tired. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

Anya shrugs. “No drama.” 

She says it in such a monotone way that Lexa knows Anya is still annoyed at her. She’s going to have a lot of grovelling to do in the coming days.

Right now, though, she just wants to crawl between the cool sheets of her bed and sleep for twenty-four hours.

“Officially girlfriends, huh?” Anya remarks, drier than the Mojave desert, as she pulls into the parking lot of the condo. “You copped it sweet.”

The corner of Lexa’s mouth ticks up. “I did.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Lexa holds the phone to her ear and steps out onto the balcony, barefoot. A faint breeze stirs the floor-length white gossamer drapes behind her, bringing with it the salty air that rolls in from the ocean. 

Her hair is loose, fluttering about her face, and she scoops the thick fall of it over one shoulder.

Seconds pass before she hears a raspy, slightly breathless “Lex”—as though Clarke had rushed to answer from another room. 

It makes Lexa’s knees go weak and she puts out a hand to the guardrail to steady herself. “I wasn’t sure if you’d still be awake.”

“Mm, I may have consumed enough caffeine to keep me up for three nights straight. My left eyelid won’t stop twitching.”

“Clarke,” she chides with a laugh. “I could’ve called you tomorrow. Tonight. Uh… you get what I mean.”

There’s a soft chuckle on the other end of the line and it sounds so intimate in her ear. “I know but,” and here Lexa can picture Clarke biting her lip, “I wanted to hear your voice.”

Warmth blooms between Lexa’s ribs. 

She drops onto one of the low outdoor armchairs and draws her legs up beneath her. 

Touches her lips absently, as if she can still feel the imprint of Clarke’s, recalling the exact flavour and texture of Clarke’s mouth against her own so many hours later. 

“I’m glad you stayed up.”

“Me too.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


They ease into a routine.

Talking on the phone every day after Lexa leaves the training courts at lunch and Clarke returns home from work. Skyping most nights before Clarke goes to bed, and more often than not their conversation does take a raunchy turn. 

(It’s not enough, not by a long shot—Lexa’s own fingers being no substitute for Clarke’s—but it’s something.)

Seeing Clarke’s face, even if it’s only an occasionally glitchy video feed on a laptop screen, is by far the brightest spot of the day. It’s what keeps Lexa going when her hamstring is uncooperative.

Maybe it’s the change in climate or maybe the new PT—a great bearded bear of a man covered in tattoos, named Gustus—but rehab is frustrating. One step forward and two steps back, and Lexa can’t shake the sense that everyone around her is disappointed by her progress.

She’s disappointed in herself. 

Angry and exasperated.

Some mornings she jolts awake with a gasp, instinctively reaching for a warm body that isn’t there. Fragments of dreams come back to her. Flashes of the match. That phantom pain in her thigh. Ontari’s goading smirk and the grim set of Titus’s face. The unnerving hush that fell over the stands as the crowd waited for the outcome of the medical timeout. The shame and despair at having her shot at the title ripped away from her by this stupid fucking injury.

No matter how hard she tries to lock it down and focus on recovery, she relives it all in her head whenever she steps onto the court.

So she overcompensates.

Internalises it and uses it to fuel the power behind her groundstrokes, hitting the ball with so much force that Anya has to keep jumping out the way.

Like today. Pushing herself to the point of exhaustion. Yelling when she lunges for a ball just inside the ad court sideline and her lower leg cramps. Throwing the racket at the net in a fit of rage as she limps and curses and clutches her calf.

“Haven’t seen you this stroppy since you were thirteen,” Anya says with a hard look as she points at the ground for Lexa to sit. Far from gentle as she massages the muscle spasm, not like Clarke would be.

Lexa merely turns her face away, sullen.

“And that’s the tenth racket you’ve gone through this week. Indra said you need to chill the fuck out before you blow the annual equipment budget.” 

“No, she didn’t.”

“Not in so many words. But she’s concerned. We all are. Constantly walking on eggshells in case you throw a wobbly.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not, though. All this moping over Tits—”

“Don’t,” Lexa spits out, finally pinning the other woman with a glare. Her jaw tightens while she reins in her temper. “This isn’t about Clarke.”

Okay, it’s partly about Clarke but she’s not giving Anya the satisfaction of being right.

Anya sits back on her heels, eyes narrowed, her face a mask of ill-concealed irritation. 

“Well then, pull your head in and stop dicking about. Because I’ve had a gutful of this. One minute you’re like a hornet in a bottle, the next you’re sulking and pouting for America.” She stands and dusts off her shorts. “And, Lex, if you think you’re ready for competition? You’re not. So get off your arse, we’re not here to fuck spiders.”

With that, Anya saunters off to speak to Titus and Lexa slaps the ground, furious about everything, including the unforgiving sun beating down on her.

  
  
  


***

  
  


For once, the Skype date doesn’t put her in a better frame of mind. Because Clarke is just as grumpy, which would be delightful if Lexa wasn’t wallowing in her own foul mood.

“Honestly, if I have to suffer through one more arrogant prat boasting about driving a Porsche or renting a mansion, as if I’m supposed to be impressed, I might throttle him. To think they earn more in a week than a nurse or teacher does in—”

Clarke stops mid-tirade when she seems to realise that Lexa hasn’t said anything substantial in the past five minutes. “Sorry, I’ve been going on and on, haven’t I?” 

“It’s okay.”

“Still, I’m sure you don’t want to listen to me rant all night.” Clarke leans forward, her face filling the screen. “How’s rehab?”

“So-so.”

A frown. “Do you want me to speak to your physio? If there’s anything unclear about the treatment plan I can go over it with him.”

“No, it’s—” Lexa sighs. “He has a good reputation and Indra checked out his credentials thoroughly. On that count, there’s no problem.” 

She holds Clarke’s gaze while she selects her next words carefully. “It’s more that the plan is missing one crucial component...”

She lets the statement hang, no need to fill in the blanks.

Clarke shuts her eyes. “Lexa.”

“I didn’t think it would be this hard.” 

They both know Lexa isn’t talking about rehab anymore.

She’s been trying to have some chill. To be patient and considerate and not make Clarke feel guilty about her indecision. Resolving that it takes as long as it takes and she needs to abide by that. But she’s also miserable and lonely and this physical _yearning_ is too much. It isn’t even the sex, (although—fuck, yes) it’s being unable to touch Clarke in any capacity. 

“It’s been difficult for me too,” Clarke admits softly. 

Lexa nods and prepares herself for a question she isn’t sure she wants an answer to. “So do we keep doing this or do we stop?”

“There’s no way I’m stopping.” Immediate; certain. Clarke recoils slightly, eyes widening a fraction. “Do _you_ want to stop?”

“No! No, absolutely not,” Lexa says emphatically. “I just had to give you the option. Clarke, the last thing I want is for you to be unhappy.”

“I’m not. I mean, am I dissatisfied with the general circumstances of us being on opposite sides of the Atlantic? Yes.” Clarke softens and props her cheek on her fist. “Because I miss you. I even miss your stinky workout clothes in the laundry hamper.”

For the first time today a genuine smile curves across Lexa’s mouth. And it makes her feel better to hear the struggle is no less real for Clarke. She isn’t going to gloat about it, though. Not tonight.

“I miss you, too.” 

They both loosen up, relieved smiles growing wider.

Lexa tells Clarke about Anya and practice—leaving out the part about her on-court dramatics, because even she’s embarrassed by it in retrospect. Talks about Gustus, whom she suspects is also a flaming gay. Like, she’s almost a hundred percent convinced she saw him or his identical twin walking hand-in-hand with a hot twink while she was out running the other day. 

Clarke complains about soccer players some more until she starts to yawn, eyelids growing heavy. Lexa can see her attempts to fight the progressive tiredness and it endears Clarke to her all the more, as if that’s possible.

“Go to sleep,” Lexa says, after Clarke has yawned for the third time in the span of a minute. “We’ll catch up again tomorrow.”

“Bored, are we? Fine,” Clarke mock pouts. 

“No, I’m worried you’re going to pass out. And you have work in,” Lexa pauses to calculate the time difference, “six hours?”

Clarke glances towards the top corner of the screen where the clock is located and grimaces. “Crap, I do.” She rubs her eyes and blinks a few times. “Lex?”

“Mm?”

“You don’t have to pretend with me. If you’re going through a rough patch, if your leg hurts or Titus is pissing you off. Or if you just feel compelled to vent about the frankly terrifying deficiencies of the toupéd tangerine cockwomble who’s inexplicably in charge of your country, I want to hear about it. Will you promise me you’ll do that?”

“Pretty sure you don’t want to get me started on him. But, otherwise, yes.” Lexa lifts an eyebrow. “Also, cockwomble?”

“Insults are a highly revered art form here. When you live in a dreary, rain-battered nation known for poor dentistry and an irrational distrust of foreigners, you have to get your kicks somehow.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, you have the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen.”

She gets a dazzling glimpse of it then, accompanied by a blush and a slow bat of long lashes. “If I wasn’t about to faceplant the keyboard…”

“My girlfriend, the seductress,” Lexa deadpans, but a smirk plays around her mouth. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Things improve drastically in the following days.

Lexa is more focused during training. Composed and controlled, projecting an aura of calm. 

She moves around the court with much greater fluidity and quick, sure-footed bursts of pace, her strokes marrying accuracy with contained force.

From the sidelines, Titus nods his approval.

Meanwhile, Anya slips back into old patterns, teasing Lexa about the booty tooch she does when she’s bouncing the ball during her serve.

“Hey, Tyra Banks!” Shouted from across the net, Anya’s voice like a foghorn, drawing the attention of everyone on the surrounding courts. “If you stuck your arse out any further, it’d be in a different zip code.”

And Lexa just huffs. 

Huffs then serves an ace that’s on fire.

Gives Anya a cool stare that communicates “my technique is perfect” with a mere arch of an eyebrow, enough to shut her up until they begin doing backhand drills. 

By the third week in August, Gustus gives Lexa the all-clear and Flushing Meadows starts to feel like a real possibility, a not insurmountable goal. When she shares the good news with Clarke over Skype, the pride and joy are palpable. 

(The two orgasms apiece are their own reward.)

All through the match simulations and gruelling gym sessions, the strength work and stamina training, her hamstring holds up.

It holds until it doesn’t.

A snap.

Fire shooting up her thigh.

When she’s being stretchered off the court, she can hardly see the cloudless sky above for the hot tears blurring her vision. 

She covers her face and screams into her hands.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to theproseofnight, Orange and Clonie, who all cast an eye over this beast of a chapter.

“Clarke?”

She’s staring forward, eyes trained on the poster on the far wall. A whole series of them papered there, taunting her.

It’s cruelty of the highest order. 

Because while, yes, Lexa hinted the campaign might be dropping soon, Clarke was in no way prepared for the reality early on Monday morning, when the carriage doors slid open and she was confronted with _this_.

Lexa’s cool gaze and pouty lips and those cheekbones. Hoodie up; gorgeous tresses spilling from one side in soft waves. Projecting the kind of self-possessed, verging on superior confidence that Clarke finds so painfully attractive.

It knocked the air from her lungs. 

Mid-conversation, she just stopped. Had a complete brain melt, all coherent thought vanishing as she stood and gaped for a full ten seconds. Staring at her girlfriend—a fact which still hadn’t quite sunk in yet—plastered nearly four feet high over the walls of the tube station Clarke disembarked at every working day, usually without incident.

Other commuters swarmed around her, tutting and jostling. Lincoln had to escort her off the train by the elbow, his booming laughter ringing in her ears as she stumbled over her feet, robbed of all coordination and poise.

Once she recovered her mental faculties and motor skills, she’d taken a snap of the Nike advert and sent it to Lexa, along with the caption: _you, Miss Woods, are a_ _menace_. 

(She chose to ignore Lincoln’s “good luck pretending you’re not fantasising about Legs during the staff meeting at nine…”)

Lexa’s response came through several hours later, as Clarke was enjoying her tea break: a milky cuppa and a cheeky choc chip Hobnob (or two) while she disinterestedly flipped through the latest issue of NOW that Fox, the improbably-named new receptionist, had left behind. It was probably safe to say that perusing gossip about former Love Island contestants was a far cry from what Lexa had been doing at that precise moment: likely preparing something putrid green with the consistency of sludge in a blender in advance of her early morning run. 

_L: Did it make you rethink that job offer?_

It was easy to conjure an image of Lexa’s smirk, the subtle upturn of her lips, the way her eyes veritably shone, crinkling at the corners when she was pleased with herself.

Since their pivotal Skype conversation, Lexa had started dropping more and more teasing comments about the job and Clarke had come to relish deflecting them.

_If you send me an HQ version, it might._

She’d waited, biting her lip, fingers drumming on the tabletop as she watched the ellipses do their oscillating dance.

The next texts arrived in quick succession.

_L: You could have the real deal, you know._  
_L: In bed with you._  
_L: Naked._  
_L: Doing dirty things._  
_L: Naked, dirty things._  
_L: Preferably without a feline audience._

Despite being alone in the staff room, Clarke had still glanced around furtively, a bloom of heat spreading from her chest, up her neck, to the tips of her ears.

_Tsk. Sexting at work. What sort of girl do you take me for?_

_L: One who really likes to be on top._

And Clarke had been _so_ close to just ringing Lexa up right then and sequestering herself in the loo for the rest of her break.

That night, their Skype session was…

Good grief, days later Clarke still shivers to think of it. 

How dark and intent Lexa’s eyes were as she watched Clarke touch herself, something almost feral in her expression. How Lexa didn’t wait to slide a hand into her own underwear and the subsequent _noise_ she made sliced through Clarke. But, mostly, she remembers them both flushed and smiling at one another afterwards and how her heart had clutched. More than anything, she wanted to stroke the sweaty hair from Lexa’s temple; kiss the lush fullness of Lexa’s bottom lip, plump and red from being sucked on; have Lexa’s long limbs wrapped around her while they dozed for a bit before going another round.

She hadn’t felt the distance, Lexa’s absence more keenly than she did in that moment and she despised it.

In the days since, it’s all she’s been able to think about. Missing Lexa, wanting her. The Skyping and phone calls and texts aren’t enough to fill that hollowed-out space in Clarke’s chest. None of those things able to compensate for the way she craves Lexa’s touch, her physical form.

It’s the feel of Lexa’s smile melding into Clarke’s own as they kiss. The gentle yet certain glide of Lexa’s hands over her body. Waking up together, skin to skin, Lexa’s warm breath stirring the hair at Clarke’s nape. 

She needs it. 

And what once seemed like an impossible choice, Lexa or London, becomes less so with each successive day they’re apart.

“Earth to Clarke. Clarke. Oi, Clarke!”

A giant spade of a hand waving in front of her face is what finally jolts her out of her trance.

She peels her eyes away from the poster to look at Lincoln, wary of the slight dip of his brows, the question in his gaze.

“Hm?”

“I said, are you still up for it tonight? The whole gang will be there. Prof’s even getting the train down from Edinburgh for the weekend.”

“Oh, um, about that… I think I fancy an early night. Sorry.”

He sighs. “Griff.”

“What?”

“You say that every time, lately.”

“I don’t. I just—”

“Actually, you do.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his camo shorts, brown eyes growing serious. “Clarke, it’s _Wells_. We only see him about three times a year when he’s not off digging up tiny bits of broken pottery in the Outer Hebrides. He’ll be gutted if you don’t make an appearance. Especially if he doesn’t get another chance to see you before you bugger off to America.”

No one has ever been so adept at laying on a guilt trip as Lincoln except, perhaps, her mum.

“It isn’t a foregone conclusion.”

Lincoln stares, his doubt abundantly clear.

After enduring a minute of pointed silence, Clarke casts her eyes towards the vaulted brick ceiling and heaves a put-upon sigh. 

“Fine. I’ll go. But on one condition: we’re not letting Wells pick the team name again. I refuse to participate as ‘Quizteama Aguilera’ or ‘Trivia Newton-John’.”

“Come on, don’t tell me ‘Beyoncé Know-it-alls’ wasn’t a stroke of genius.”

Clarke merely sends him a sour look before she pulls out her phone. 

She fires off a text to Lexa, apologising for having to skip their scheduled call due to unrelenting peer pressure and that she’ll call later if she’s not too pissed.

She doesn’t have to wait long for Lexa’s reply. 

_L: I assume you mean ‘pissed’ in the British sense, in which case, I look forward to you drunk-dialling me. Have fun xx_

  
  


***

  
  


The first thing Clarke notices as she slides into the booth is Octavia’s conspicuous absence.

“Where is your fiancée?”

Lincoln takes a sip of his pint and exchanges a shifty glance with Miller. “Well, you know she does MMA on Tuesdays, yeah? The trainer had to move the class this week. Short notice. Couldn’t be helped.”

Unimpressed, Clarke folds her arms. “And you gave _me_ such a hard time about not coming out. I see where your loyalties lie.”

“To be fair, O’s capable of withholding sex from him,” Miller remarks, his Scouse drawl becoming more pronounced in direct proportion to his alcohol consumption. He raises his own pint to Lincoln and they clink glasses. “And she’s a lot fucking scarier than you.”

Lincoln nods his agreement to that and Clarke’s scowl deepens. Although, she can’t really dispute that Octavia is a pocket-sized terror that you do _not_ want to cross, her force of will more than compensating for any height deficiency. Still, it’s the principle of the thing. 

“Someone looks grumpy,” Wells says as he takes the spot opposite Clarke, setting down a pear Kopparberg in front of her. “What did I miss while I was at the bar?”

In spite of her mild irritation at Lincoln’s underhandedness, she finds her mood lifting in Wells’s company. She always forgets about the slight Scottish lilt his accent has become imbued with, having lived north of the border for a few years now. It only adds to his charm and she realises how much she’s missed him and his unfortunate predilection for turtleneck jumpers.

“Oh, she’s just got the hump because we’re keeping her away from her,” Miller waggles his eyebrows, “lover gerl.”

Clarke slaps his shoulder hard, satisfied by the petulant “ow” she receives. 

Wells’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait—what? You’re seeing someone? For how long? Who is she, what does she do, and how come I’m not meeting her now?”

With all eyes on her, Clarke flushes slightly. “God, what is this? The Spanish Inquisition?”

“Now _that_ would’ve been a good team name.”

“Shut up, Nathan,” she and Wells mutter in unison and Miller pouts at their use of his hated first name.

Wells continues to stare and Clarke realises he isn’t going to let this go. She sighs in defeat. 

“She’s back in the States now, and it’s all very new so that’s why I haven’t mentioned it.” She reaches for her drink and takes a long swallow. Mumbles against the lip of the bottle, “It’s Lexa Woods.”

In the short lull that follows, Wells blinks at her, mouth hanging open. Then he snaps his jaw shut; chuckles. “Yeah, right. Good one. But, really, tell me more about this mystery woman.”

When Clarke remains silent, Wells hesitates. His uncertain gaze swings around the booth. “No? Bollocks! You’re pulling my leg.”

“Nope,” Lincoln says. He adds after a beat, “She definitely pulled Lexa, though.”

Miller snorts.

Clarke plucks a salted peanut from the bowl in the middle of the table and throws it at him. It bounces off his chest, landing in his pint with a plop, and she mentally congratulates herself because she couldn’t have managed that if she’d tried.

“Hey, wharrif I had a nut allergy?” Miller complains, holding up the glass to peer at the peanut as it sinks to the bottom.

“Lexa sodding Woods.” Wells shakes his head in stunned disbelief. He sits forward abruptly, taps the table with one finger. “I demand details.”

“She was a client.” Clarke’s eyes are fixed on the bottle in her hands, on the bead of condensation that rolls down the neck towards her thumb. “We met before Wimbledon and things…” She shrugs and meets Wells’s stare. “Progressed.”

A slow dawning smile spreads across his face. “Griffin, you sly—”

“It wasn’t like that,” she says defensively. 

“It really was.” Lincoln laughs. “One look at Lexa in tight little running shorts and Griff here devolved into the hopeless bi mess we all knew and loved from uni.”

Clarke’s glare returns. 

“Can you blame her, like?” Miller says. “I’m happily married and gayer than Troye Sivan getting bummed by some piece of rough trade while Elton John serenades them with a medley of Britney’s greatest hits on the piano, but even I might chuck our Bryan for one night with Lexa.”

“Sorry to dash your hopes but, as pretty as you are, you’re not her type,” Clarke says. “Your moobs are far too small.”

He mimes turning a crank to extend his middle finger and everyone around the table laughs. Once the amusement tapers off, she finds Wells looking at her with soft sympathy.

“Long-distance, though. That’s tough,” he says, while Lincoln and Miller are distracted by their own conversation about which Britney songs would make it into this hypothetical medley.

Clarke puts on a brave smile. “It is, but we’re going to try this thing and see what happens. I _might_ be able to wangle some time off at the end of September to visit. We’ll see.”

“I hope everything works out.”

She nods, grateful. “So do I.”

Wells lays a hand on her wrist and gives it a gentle squeeze before withdrawing. Picks up his glass and takes a gulp of lager, the froth clinging to his upper lip. 

He grins.

“And not just so your bird can blag us good seats for Centre Court next year.”

  
  


***

  
  


The pub operates a strict no-phones-out policy during the quiz to prevent cheating, so it isn’t until Clarke nips to the toilets after the music round that she discovers she has a missed call and voicemail from an unknown number. It’s probably just another nuisance PPI claim company but something wriggles at the back of her brain, regardless.

Leaning against the sinks, she listens to the message and a chill runs through her as soon as she recognises Anya’s voice, devoid of her signature sardonic delivery. She sounds shaken; worried. It puts Clarke instantly on high alert.

“Clarke, hey. I know it’s a shitty thing to spring it on you like this but,” Anya pauses, releases a rough sigh, and in the background Clarke is able to discern the echo of brisk footsteps. “Lexa’s hurt. Her hammy’s come a real cropper this time. Might even need surgery. Dunno yet. Just… call me when you get this.”

The voicemail cuts off.

Clarke replays it twice more and as the words clamour in her head—Lexa, hurt, _surgery_ —it feels as though she’s been punched in the gut. 

She takes a deep breath, an attempt to calm the flutter of alarm and fear beneath her breastbone. All trembling, clumsy fingers as she stabs at the ‘call back’ button and lifts the phone to her ear. 

It seems like a fucking eternity before Anya answers.

“What happened?” Clarke blurts without preamble. “Can I speak to her?”

“She’s in getting an MRI.”

Her mind flashes to Lexa in a flimsy hospital gown, lying on the scanning table and slowly being slid feet-first into the magnet chamber. Jaw tight; eyes guarded; fists clenched at her sides. 

Clarke’s throat constricts. “And?”

“The doc suspects it’s a grade three tear.”

She passes a hand over her eyes.

Neither of them need to acknowledge the severity of such a diagnosis. A complete rupture or damage to the ischial bone itself is an injury athletes seldom fully recover from without surgical intervention. But surgery or not, rehab takes months and the likelihood of recurring injury or other associated performance problems is high.

Lexa is surely aware of that, too. Must be anxious and scared and, knowing her, doing her best to conceal it from everyone behind a façade of stoic reserve.

Clarke’s heart aches for her. But sorrow is soon overtaken by frustration, by a desperate sense of helplessness at being stuck here, unable to do anything to ease Lexa’s anguish from afar.

“Does she—” She swallows. Her tongue feels like sandpaper in her mouth. “Has she been told yet? How serious it is.”

“Yeah, nah. We—Titus and me—we reckoned we should wait for the scan results.”

She nods to herself. “That’s probably wise.”

There’s heavy silence, until a couple of tipsy women barge through the door and Clarke startles at the interruption. The pair giggle as they cram themselves into a single cubicle, either oblivious to or careless of her frown. She doesn’t even want to know what they’re up to and quickly removes herself from the facilities, telling Anya, “Sorry, could you hold on a minute? It’s too noisy in here.”

Phone still glued to her ear, she doesn’t stop to speak to her friends, although she’s acutely aware of their curious stares following her to the exit. Once outside, she finds a quieter spot away from the smokers and pulls in a lungful of fresh air. It goes a little way to restoring some equilibrium. 

“How is she coping?” Clarke asks, combing shaky fingers through her hair. 

“She’s,” Anya sighs, “Christ, I don’t know. On the practice court she cracked the shits, cursing up a storm, then in the ambo she just… shut down. Stared off into space like a zombie. Didn’t say another word until she saw the specialist.”

“The shock, I’d imagine.”

“Yeah, well, wobblies and aggro posturing I can handle. But this? Fuck, no.” Another small stretch of quiet, then, “She needs _you_ , Clarke.”

Clarke‘s lips part. “I…”

In her peripheral vision, she notices Lincoln emerge from the pub, sees the puzzlement and concern in his expression. But he keeps his distance, allowing her the privacy to conclude the call.

“Look, she told me about the job and that’s a whole other convo I don’t wanna stick my beak into. All I’m asking is for you to come over for a few days,” Anya presses. “Help Lexa get her head around this.”

Every instinct tells Clarke to say yes, that she’ll book her arse on the next available flight, but she can’t shut off the logical, rational part of her brain. She has responsibilities she can’t shirk, clients who rely on her for treatment; the football season has only just begun and she can’t leave Nyko in the lurch. Not to mention Bell, whose trust she slowly won back after him being forced to share his space with a stranger. 

The sum of all these factors compounds her indecision, leaves her floundering and speechless. Even so, her thoughts keep circling back to Lexa; to Lexa’s face crumpled in agony, wearing the same expression of devastation Clarke bore witness to at Wimbledon. 

And she _can’t_. 

She can’t stay away.

She exhales and takes the leap. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” Anya’s relief is palpable.

“I’ll have to make arrangements, obviously. Work. Bellamy.”

“Bellamy?” Anya sounds momentarily confused, then, “Oh, the sociopathic moggy. Yeah, Lex mentioned him. Said she was in mortal danger.” 

Unseen, Clarke rolls her eyes because of course Lexa exaggerated the cat’s hostility towards her. 

“Yes, well, as you know, she’s prone to dramatics,” Clarke says, dryly. Her eyes dart towards where Lincoln still loiters in the doorway and she sobers. “So... I’ll look into flights and text you the details?”

“Righto.”

“Anya?”

“Mm.”

“Be kind to her until I arrive, please?”

There’s a scoff on the other end of the line, but Anya’s tone is softer than Clarke expects when she replies, “Maybe it won’t kill me to ease up on taking the piss for a day or two.”

After the call ends, Clarke gazes at the screen for a moment. Eyes stuck on the background image, an outtake from the Nike shoot that Lexa emailed to her the other day. In it, Lexa’s all gums and gleaming white teeth and those cute under-eye creases that appear when she smiles. As soon as Clarke recovered from her mini heart attack, she’d set it as her wallpaper, lock screen _and_ Lexa’s contact photo. 

To look at it now gives her palpitations for entirely different reasons.

An unexpected touch to her forearm makes her jolt slightly and she looks up to find Lincoln studying her face. His open palm is solid and warm, a comforting weight before it drops away.

“It’s Lexa. She’s...” Clarke rubs her forehead with her knuckles, phone still clutched tightly in her hand. “She’s injured again. Badly.”

His brow furrows but he says nothing, a pillar of patience and calm while he waits for her to continue.

“It’s possible she’ll need an operation. Linc, this could be...” 

Career-threatening. 

She doesn’t dare say it aloud for fear of making it a reality. 

Stricken by that thought, she blinks back the moisture that springs up unbidden. Her throat feels tight and hot and when she speaks again her voice is a thick rasp. “I have to go to Miami. I have to see her, be with her. I have to run home and pack and somehow explain to Nyko and I—”

In the next instant, she’s encircled by huge arms, cheek crushed against Lincoln’s broad chest. He holds on tight until she sags, the agitation dissipating, leaving a quiet kind of despair behind in its wake. 

“Am I barmy for doing this?” she asks, a note of pleading in her voice. 

“If I was in your shoes, if something happened to Octavia, nothing could stop me from going to her.”

He grasps her shoulders and looks her dead in the eye. 

“Griff, I don’t know Lexa on a personal level but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from following her ups and downs on the court, she’s a fighter. She’s going to get through this.” Clarke opens her mouth to speak but Lincoln carries on. “She will. But you need to be strong for her, yeah? You can’t fall to pieces. It’s like I always say: get knocked down—”

“Get back up,” she finishes softly and nods, resolve solidifying within her chest. 

He offers a slight smile and releases her, stepping back a pace. “Want me to come back to yours? Help you get organised for the trip?”

“No. Stay. Win that hundred quid prize for Agatha Quiztie. But, I do have a cheeky favour to ask.” She wrinkles her nose. “Would you mind taking care of Bell while I’m away?”

“Of course, no sweat.”

She throws her arms around his neck for another quick hug, planting a loud smooch against his stubbly jaw. 

He wipes it off with a chuckle. “Go see your girl. Just make sure you come back so we can give you a proper send-off.”

She purses her lips. “Linc.”

“Yeah, yeah. You haven’t made up your mind yet.” 

His smile grows, as though he knows something she doesn’t, but she can’t bring herself to be annoyed by it.

  
  


***

  
  


Clarke’s stomach is in knots when she informs Nyko about the “family emergency.” It’s somehow worse that he’s so accommodating, telling her not to worry, to take all the time she needs, unfailingly sympathetic and kind. 

While the guilt gnaws at her about embellishing the truth to her boss, it isn’t enough to dissuade herself from committing to the deception.

And so the following day she boards an early morning flight to Charles du Gaulle from Gatwick, connecting to Miami via Montreal, running on four hours of sleep and as many double espresso shots. The latter, she’s quickly coming to regret because she’s jittery and fidgety and she’s had to get up twice already to pee, much to the irritation of the besuited man in the aisle seat next to her.

Any slim hope she had for relaxation is dashed by the excessive caffeine-to-blood ratio in her veins and the kid who keeps kicking the back of her seat every few minutes. 

Somewhere over the Channel, she loses the rag. With a huff, she turns and throws a deadly glare over the top of the headrest. He’s a snotty-nosed little brat with a mop of dark hair and the air of a mini despot about him. He stares up at her with wide eyes, foot poised to kick again.

“Excuse me,” Clarke says to the woman beside him who’s engrossed in the in-flight magazine. Judging by the strong resemblance, she must be his mother. “Would you mind asking your child to desist?”

On cue, the boy’s shoe connects with the hard plastic backing once more. 

Clarke thins her lips, one eyebrow arching upwards. She tilts her head pointedly, as if to say, “I rest my case.”

The mother flushes, clearly mortified at being called out for her inattention to her son’s delinquent behaviour. She grabs his ankle, a preventive measure, and offers Clarke a meek, cringing, “sorry.”

As Clarke settles back down in her seat, she overhears a hiss of, “Jason! Sit still or it’s no more PAW Patrol for you.”

Followed seconds later by a piercing wail as Jason proceeds to scream himself hoarse at the prospect of being denied access to animated canine tomfoolery.

Grimacing, Clarke drags a hand down her cheek and it occurs to her with growing dismay that reaching Miami without losing either a) her temper or b) her sanity is going to be a true test of her mettle.

  
  


***

  
  


By the time the plane touches down at Miami International Airport, Clarke’s eyes feel hot and gritty with exhaustion. Disruptive children aside, she’s never developed the ability to sleep on planes and this journey was no exception. She’s dead on her feet while she queues at Passport Control, dazed as she collects her suitcase from the baggage reclaim carousel, and makes her way to Arrivals in a shuffling trance.

The solitary thought driving her forward is Lexa. 

Between flight connections they’d played a frustrating game of phone tag. Having sworn Anya to secrecy, Clarke hadn’t let on about her travel plans, hoping the impromptu visit would jolt Lexa out of wallowing in self-pity. Now she’s here, it takes all of Clarke’s restraint not to spoil the surprise.

She soon spots Anya in the concourse, holding up an A4 sheet of paper that reads ‘Tits McGee’ in big, bold block capitals.

“Original,” Clarke mutters, too tired to even muster an eye roll in her present state.

Anya offers a nod in greeting. “How’re you going?”

“As well as can be expected, considering I’ve been awake for thirty-six hours and I’m running on fumes. How is she?”

“Grumpy as fuck, especially when the meds wear off.” 

Anya casts an eye over Clarke and if her stare lingers over the borrowed hoodie, Clarke pretends not to notice. It was the first warm, comfy thing she had to hand to wear on the flight and the fact it still retains Lexa’s scent, that the familiar smell goes some way to soothing her fraught nerves is nobody’s business but her own.

“No offence but you look rougher than a kanga’s arse. Wanna freshen up at my unit? Get some tucker? Or—”

“No.” It comes out sharper than Clarke intends but she’s anxious to assess Lexa’s condition for herself. “Thank you. I do appreciate the offer but I just want to see her now.”

To her credit, Anya spares the snark.

  
  


***

  
  


Clarke only dimly registers the swankiness of the towering condo building Lexa calls home. The lobby is all gleaming marble and everything so blindingly white she has to pull down her sunglasses indoors. 

“What a dump, eh?” Anya remarks as the glass-fronted lift goes up and up and up.

Clarke just presses her lips together and flattens herself further against the wall, not daring to glance at the rapidly growing distance to the ground. It’s a relief when a loud ping announces their arrival at Lexa’s floor. 

Inside, Lexa’s apartment is as bleached and characterless as the communal parts of the building. Except for the woman sprawled on the pristine white couch that faces the open balcony doors, one leg swaddled in a compression wrap and propped on a pile of cushions, a deep sulk clouding her expression. She doesn’t look up.

“Anya, I told you I don’t need to be fucking coddled. I just want to be alone.”

“So I’ll just take Tits back to the airport then, yeah?”

Lexa’s head snaps around so quickly it’s almost comical. She scrambles to push up into a sitting position. Gapes at the pair of them standing in the entryway for a few stunned seconds before her face positively lights up. The sight of Lexa’s smile, broad and giddy and full of disbelief, loosens some of the pressure in Clarke’s chest, the tightness around her lungs that’s made it difficult to breathe since she got Anya’s voicemail.

She doesn’t care what it looks like, how desperate it might seem. She hurries over to Lexa’s side and drops to her knees, careless of the hardwood flooring. She takes Lexa’s cheeks in her hands, runs her fingers along Lexa’s jaw and over the shell of a small ear. 

“Clarke.”

Lexa sounds like she can’t quite trust her eyes, that one word tinged with awe and longing.

Warm hands cover her own and Lexa turns her face to press a kiss into Clarke’s palm. The sweetness of the gesture unravels Clarke a little more, makes her heart thump a little faster, causes her to fall a little deeper into fuzzy feelings.

Because she can’t deny it.

That she fell for Lexa in a matter of weeks. 

That she’s been treading water since—while there’s been a literal ocean between them. 

She’d been stubborn at first. Downplayed it because she couldn’t believe it was possible to feel so much, so quickly. Especially when the practicalities and Lexa’s prominence made everything that much trickier. Only a fool could pretend the odds weren’t stacked against them.

But her heart heeded none of the warnings and now here she is, sleep-deprived, on the other side of the Atlantic, being touched like Lexa needs to convince herself it’s not an apparition. She’s gentle. Slightly glazed eyes trace Clarke’s features with as much care as the thumbs that sweep over her cheeks. 

“You’re really here, baby,” Lexa whispers.

It’s obvious she’s a bit out of it, a side effect of the drugs she must be doped up on to manage the pain, because Lexa in her right mind would never use that term of endearment. Even so, it makes Clarke smile, bashful but completely endeared, and she stores that nugget away for future teasing. 

“Just until Thursday. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”

Lexa’s answering pout is a wondrous thing. Skype hardly did it justice and Clarke can’t prevent herself from leaning in for a kiss. It’s only supposed to be a small, chaste peck but as soon as soft lips quiver and part under her own, when a breath spills out, along with a cracked, barely audible “Clarke,” her noble intentions evaporate.

She reaches for the back of Lexa’s neck, holding her in place while they relearn the contours of each other’s mouths. 

It’s a bit frantic, almost clumsy; exactly the sort of reunion kiss Clarke’s been dreaming of.

She’d fretted that things might somehow be different between them, that she wouldn’t feel the same magical buzz of excitement and nerves. The weeks during and after Wimbledon were a headrush, a whirlwind, and with time and distance and perspective she’d worried that perhaps the intense chemistry wouldn’t be there once they were in the same physical space again.

She couldn’t be more overjoyed to be proved wrong.

Touching Lexa now, kissing her, still makes Clarke’s head spin and her heart hammer and her knickers damp. And when long fingers become tangled in her travel-mussed hair, when Lexa dips her tongue into Clarke’s mouth—

There’s a loud cough behind them. Brain addled by the kissing, it takes Clarke longer than it should to register what the noise is and who’s responsible for it. 

Then she remembers.

Oh, _bugger_. 

Anya.

Hovering like a mother hen by the entryway, still.

Clarke has to force herself to pull away, only to be beguiled all over again by Lexa’s quiet whine of complaint and the way she sways forward to pursue Clarke’s retreating lips. Not that Clarke is able to prise her own eyes from Lexa’s mouth for more than a second. 

“So... I’m gonna shoot through before you two start banging like a dunny door in the wind,” Anya announces. When the only response she receives is an absent nod, she adds, “Thanks heaps, Anya. You’re a true blue mate, Anya. Here’s a hefty raise for all the hard yakka over the years.”

“Nice try,” Lexa calls out, still gazing at Clarke, all soft appraisal. “I love you like a sister but please fuck off.”

“Bloody charming!”

The onus falls on Clarke to be the gracious one as she half-turns, having the decency to give Anya her full attention. “That’s just the painkillers talking. Thank you, Anya, we’re both very grateful for everything. I’ll update you tomorrow?”

Anya just makes a gruff, noncommittal noise and sees herself out.

Left alone together, they find themselves in a pocket of slight awkwardness and shy smiles. The quiet of the apartment is offset by the distant rush of ocean waves, the occasional squawk of gulls, the faint din of traffic from the street far below. Now that the initial exhilaration has ebbed, Clarke feels woozy. She’s felt extreme exhaustion before—that non-stop flight home from Bangkok with Lincoln was a particularly hellish experience—but nothing like this, as if it’s seeped into her very bones, her limbs leaden, neck barely able to support the weight of her head. It’s a struggle to keep her eyes open, even as Lexa tugs her up off the floor and onto the couch.

“Lex,” she protests, wary of inadvertently jostling the injury.

“There’s room. You won’t hurt me.”

Clarke’s feeble resistance lasts mere seconds. She allows herself to settle against Lexa’s side and sinks into the heat of Lexa’s body gratefully as an arm slides around her shoulders.

“Just to cuddle.” Clarke gives Lexa a stern look, which is probably undermined by the heaviness of her eyelids and the subsequent wide yawn that’s barely masked by the cover of her hand. “No funny business.”

The pout is back.

“I’m literally moments away from zonking out and you’re in no condition for any exertions either,” Clarke says, a note of fond exasperation creeping into her voice before she grows serious again. “Certainly not while you’re under the influence of prescription drugs.”

“I’m okay.” The petted lip transforms into a slow, lascivious smirk. “You have my full permission to take advantage of me. And don’t worry, my hamstring might be fucked but my hands are in perfectly good working order.”

Lexa winks, or rather blinks both eyes, and Clarke has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop a snort from escaping.

“Uh-huh. Are the drugs supposed to make you this frisky? Because I might need to have a word with your doctor about the dosage.”

“It’s not the meds,” Lexa says with a shake of her head. She dips her chin and murmurs, “It’s you.” Her gaze roams down what’s visible of Clarke’s torso. “Have I mentioned that you look really, really, _really_ hot in my hoodie?”

Clarke makes an incredulous noise, because that’s patently nonsense. Her hair’s a state; she has suitcases under her eyes and—oof—her armpits are ripe, to put it mildly. 

“It’s true. Did I tell you it’s my favourite one?” Lexa plucks at the fabric with an impish little smile. “Think I like it better on you, though. Especially if I’m allowed to strip you out of it.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“If you mean determined, then yes.” She tugs meaningfully at the hoodie again. “Determined to get you undressed.”

“You talk a big game, Woods, but your words are slurred and I see you valiantly trying to resist shutting your eyes.”

“Those are my sultry bedroom eyes.”

This time Clarke does laugh and the way Lexa beams with pride, it’s as if she just won a Slam in straight sets. So Clarke wriggles closer and, at Lexa’s silent urging, tips her head back to receive a kiss. Infinitely softer, slower than their previous ones but it still sends tiny sparks down Clarke’s spine, makes her tingle from head to toe. It’s a reflex, to open her mouth and seek more and Lexa obliges, sucking lightly on Clarke’s bottom lip. 

Somehow—sometime between the first teasing swipe of Lexa’s tongue and the fingers that weave into Clarke’s hair and a pair of mingled sighs—Clarke ends up half on top of Lexa, unsure of how she came to be there.

She retreats, fighting a smile at the frustrated noise it earns her. Presses her lips to Lexa’s bare shoulder, to placate, to reassure, nuzzling the patch of skin next to the strap of Lexa’s tank top. And, God, Lexa smells incredible. So clean and fresh and warm that Clarke wants to burrow into it. It makes her all the more conscious of her own stale musk but she’s too tired and comfortable to truly care about the disparity. She’ll shower later. Right now, she just needs to rest her eyes for a bit and luxuriate in the feeling of Lexa’s body against her own.

“Missed you, Doc,” Lexa exhales into Clarke’s hair, arm wrapping around her more securely. “I missed you so much.”

The aching, forlorn honesty in those whispered words clogs Clarke’s throat, makes her heart squeeze, and all she can offer is a thick, “me too.”

“Yeah?”

Their eyes meet. She takes Lexa’s free hand, letting their fingers slide slowly together. And with it, another little piece of something _right_ slots into place.

“Mhm.” Clarke brings their joined hands to her lips and kisses Lexa’s knuckles. “We already talked about this, Lex. On Skype, remember?”

A tiny, adorable scrunch forms between Lexa’s brows. “Sorry, my head’s kind of fuzzy.” Then she smiles, small and sweetly, an almost serene expression on her face. Some might even go so far as to describe it as lovestruck, but Clarke’s going to blame the pharmaceuticals. “I like it when you call me that.”

“Lex?”

A hum and a nod. Lexa’s smile grows toothier and her eyes seem to glow, so much brighter and greener in person than over a video stream.

Clarke smothers her own grin by kissing the back of Lexa’s hand, looking up from beneath her lashes. Wholly captivated. A tired sort of joy spreading through every molecule of her body as she takes in Lexa’s relaxed features: lids at half mast, mouth going slack as Lexa gradually succumbs to the pull of sleep. She murmurs something that Clarke doesn’t understand, catching only the truncated “rke” of her name amid a soft, dreamy sigh.

“Shhh. Rest.” Clarke nestles her cheek into the spot between Lexa’s shoulder and boob and lets her eyes slide shut. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  
  


***

  
  


When Clarke awakens, hours later, it’s with a crick in her neck and an incredible urge to pee. There’s a moment of groggy disorientation at finding herself in unfamiliar surroundings, thrown off balance by the fact dusk has fallen. Partially obscured by the thin drapes, the sun is a blazing orange ball sitting low on the horizon, the sky painted in swathes of pink and indigo and blue. 

And it’s _cold_. Between the artificial chill of the air conditioning and a blustery sea breeze blowing in through the balcony doors, the temperature has dropped sharply, leaving Clarke shivering despite Lexa’s body heat soaking into her at every point of contact.

With some reluctance but the utmost care, she extricates herself from Lexa’s loose hold. Perched on the edge of the couch, she allows herself a minute to watch the shallow rise and fall of Lexa’s chest, to listen to the soft sounds of her breathing, silently basking in being near Lexa again. 

At last, the pressure on her bladder becomes too insistent to ignore. 

Clarke drifts down the hallway from door to door to find the bathroom. As she peers into each room she purposefully doesn’t linger, ignoring the little itch of curiosity about how devoid of personal touches Lexa’s home is, how very neat and orderly and pristine everything appears to be. 

It’s like a show home. 

And, bloody hell, the bathroom is about half the square footage of her entire flat!

(She may have gasped when she saw the multi-jet twin shower.)

By the time Clarke returns to the lounge area, Lexa is beginning to stir. Searching the empty space beside her and discovering herself alone, Lexa rears up, wide-eyed and panicked. “Clarke?”

“Sorry, had to use the loo. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Clarke crosses the room to retake her seat, running a hand up and down Lexa’s arm. She relaxes under Clarke’s touch by degrees, letting out a slow breath as her shoulders slump. 

“I thought the meds made me hallucinate you or something.”

Clarke clasps Lexa’s hand and brings it to rest on the side of her neck. “Does this feel like a hallucination?”

Lexa’s gaze drops to Clarke’s throat and she shakes her head minutely, fingers flexing beneath Clarke’s. 

“Or this?” Clarke asks, leaning in to kiss the corner of Lexa’s mouth. Her heart trips when Lexa’s hand slides around to cup the base of her skull, when Lexa brushes their noses together and captures Clarke’s top lip _so_ gently.

“I think I’m going to need more conclusive proof,” Lexa whispers before she tilts in again.

Clarke indulges it, getting lost in the generous give of Lexa’s mouth. Their bodies shift, eager to get closer, and that’s when Clarke feels Lexa flinch, how she tenses for a split second, almost imperceptibly.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just a little sore. I’m good.”

Clarke resists Lexa’s attempt to lure her back, a gentle but insistent tug on her neck. She shoots Lexa a look of disapproval. “Is it time for your next dose? Where are the pills?”

Hanging her head, Lexa avoids Clarke’s eyes. After a beat, she mumbles, “I don’t like how they make me feel.”

“Be that as it may, they’re necessary to bring the swelling down.” Clarke softens her tone. “If the medication makes you dizzy or queasy then we can have your doctor prescribe an alternative but, Lex, please trust me on this.”

“I do trust you.” It’s immediate. Offered without a second’s hesitation. “I just reserve the right to complain, that’s all.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less. Anya said you haven’t been the most cooperative of patients.”

“Well, her bedside manner could use some work,” Lexa huffs.

It isn’t hard to imagine that Anya is no Florence Nightingale. The idea of those two bickering and snapping at one another is more amusing than it probably should be and Clarke tries to refrain from taking too much delight in Lexa’s petulance.

So she pivots. “While we’re on the subject of a certain Antipodean… you kept awfully quiet about ‘Tits McGee’.”

Lexa briefly closes her eyes, releasing a quiet groan. “I thought you’d be annoyed or self-conscious. Or both.”

“Believe me, it’s nothing new. People have been passing comment on my boobs since I was fifteen. I learned to live with it long ago.”

Dismay swiftly turns to outrage.

“Fifteen? What the fuck? That makes it even worse!” Lexa tightens her jaw, eyes wide and earnest as they dart between Clarke’s. “I’ll tell her to stop. Make her apologise. It’s a demeaning nickname and I should’ve put my foot down sooner.”

“Honestly, I’m not bothered.” Clarke shrugs and lifts a hand to tuck a loose lock of hair behind Lexa’s tiny, tiny ear. Nevertheless, she’s endeared by Lexa getting so indignant on her teenage self’s behalf. “I mean, my tits _are_ pretty fantastic. And you seem to be a fan.”

Lexa rolls her eyes but she doesn’t refute it, the tips of those little ears becoming redder even in the dwindling light. 

“Since you’re such a leg girl, that must mean we complement each other well.”

“Which reminds me. Your hamstring.” Clarke adopts a no-nonsense tone, allowing no room for dissent. “After you’ve taken your painkillers, we’ll ice it for a while then wrap it up again. Understood?”

Lexa purses her lips but she nods, resigned. 

“Good.” 

The wash of relief Clarke feels that she isn’t going to be fought tooth and nail over this is immeasurable. It gives her hope.

  
  


***

  
  


“As you can see in this dark region here,” the doctor taps her pen against the scan pinned to the wall-mounted lightbox, “we’re looking at a moderate proximal hamstring avulsion. In layman’s terms, that’s when the tendon becomes partially detached from the pelvic bone.”

It’s nothing they don’t know already, the diagnosis consistent with every other they’ve heard today, but Clarke‘s heart still sinks.

“In some instances, it _can_ result in a bone fragment being pulled away too. Fortunately,” the doctor points at the scan again, “the ischium is intact.”

A small mercy, indeed.

“If left to heal on its own, and with a careful program of supervised rehabilitation, you could expect to resume normal athletic activity in three to four months. However,” the doctor pauses to slot the pen into the breast pocket of her white coat, “scar tissue may impede muscle function and range of motion, long-term. You might become fatigued more easily, necessitating longer rest periods, or you could find yourself more injury-prone due to weakened elasticity of the tendon.”

Lexa only nods, eyes lowered and fixated on her hands folded in her lap. On the surface, her expression is still. Neutral. But Clarke has learned to recognise the small signs of tension and distress in Lexa’s body: the rigid set of her back and shoulders; the faint traces of strain around the corners of her mouth; the subtle tick of a muscle in her cheek.

And it pains Clarke to see Lexa like this. 

Defeated.

Whatever slim hope she had, extinguished. 

She’d been relatively upbeat when they left the condo this morning, joking as she was helped into the backseat of Anya’s Jeep. But with each subsequent appointment she’s only grown quieter and more withdrawn, retreating further into her brooding shell.

Clarke can’t bear it. 

She reaches across to take Lexa’s hand. Palm to palm, fingers intertwined. Offering comfort and silent support; keen to raise a smile, however small. But Lexa doesn’t glance her way, barely returns the pressure, and Clarke wants to alternately shake her out of it and wrap her up in a tight hug.

For the time being, Clarke clears her throat. Repeats the same question she asked the previous three specialists. “And what about surgery?”

The doctor steps away from the lightbox and takes a seat behind the glossy white Perspex desk that dominates the corner of the room. Devoid of any clutter, the only objects on the desk are a 27-inch iMac, Lexa’s medical file and a chrome nameplate that reads ‘Rebecca Primus, MD FACS.’

The stark, futuristic decor unsettles Clarke a bit. It more resembles a high-tech, hermetically-sealed lab than a doctor’s office, right down to the chairs they’re sitting on—what feels like a feat of brutalist ergonomic engineering, enforcing perfect posture because the alternative is uncomfortable as fuck. 

All in all, it seems very far removed from the plainly functional furniture and drab paint of NHS hospital consultation rooms. 

(She half-expected to see an interactive 3D holographic projection of Lexa’s hamstring rather than something so analogue and conventional as a print-out of an MRI scan.)

“Surgical repair is usually only recommended when the displacement exceeds two millimetres. In Lexa’s case, it’s slightly shorter.”

Dr Primus leans forward on her elbows, knits her fingers together, and regards them both in turn.

“That said, in my opinion, a corrective surgical procedure would be the best approach to minimise the probability of future reinjury. If you were to undergo surgery, the rest and recovery period is considerably longer than with conservative treatment—between six and twelve months, depending on how you respond to rehab.”

It doesn’t get any easier to hear that part either.

Dr Primus offers a sympathetic smile, which seems well-practiced but sincere.

“I know this must seem bleak, Lexa, but the procedure is fairly straightforward and patient outcomes are excellent. I’ve operated on numerous elite athletes over the years and they’ve all gone on to have continued success at the highest echelons of their respective sports.” Her smile widens a fraction. “But don’t just take my word for it; my secretary can provide testimonials.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Lexa says, the first she’s spoken for long minutes. The words are perfunctory, automatic; uttered without inflection.

“This is a lot to absorb. Take some time to consider your options. If you do decide to proceed with surgery, I’d aim to schedule it within the next three weeks or so. The sooner, the better. In the meantime, continue using the crutches and keep your weight off that leg as much as possible.”

Lexa nods. 

“In a few days you’ll be able to begin light stretching exercises with the aim of protecting the scar tissue. Just take it easy; don’t overdo it.”

“She won’t. I’ll make sure of that,” Clarke says as she helps Lexa to her feet. “I’m pulling double duty as her girlfriend _and_ her physio.”

Dr Primus laughs shortly. 

“Well, I see you’re in good hands, Lexa.” She rises from the desk. “Let me show you both out.”

  
  


***

  
  


“How’d it go?” Anya asks, hopping out from behind the wheel. As soon as she notices Lexa’s glum expression, she changes tack. “Uh, tell you what, how about you fill me in over lunch? My shout. Next appointment isn’t until 3 this arvo so we could make a sneaky detour to Islas Canarias on the way.”

Lexa crutches past. “I’m not going.”

“But you love their croquetas.”

A glare is thrown over Lexa’s shoulder. “I meant the appointment.”

“Eh? Don’t be a dipstick. This fella is one of the top orthopaedists in the country.”

“What’s the point?” Lexa snaps, whirling around on the spot and nearly losing her balance. “He won’t tell me anything different. I’ll be out of competition for months. Maybe a _year_ if I get surgery.”

She looks away, squinting at the sky.

Her jaw works. 

Nostrils flare.

“I’m not deluded. It could take even longer before I’m at Slam condition again. Meanwhile, my WTA ranking takes a nosedive and I have to watch Ontari win every major fucking title.”

She thumps one crutch tip upon the sun-scorched ground. “Maybe I should just quit altogether and get coaching certification. Save myself the humiliation.”

Anya scoffs. “Yeah, well, with an attitude like that...”

“Anya,” Clarke intercedes, sending a meaningful glance her way. One that says: _let me handle this_. “Could you give us a minute, please?”

It earns her a hand gesture that could equally be interpreted as _go ahead_ or something much cruder. Either way, Anya stalks a few paces to the side, muttering darkly about “giving lessons to coffin-dodgers at the country club.”

“Lexa.”

Still, Lexa keeps her face turned away.

“Lex,” Clarke tries again, gentler.

She steps up close and touches Lexa’s bicep, fingers slipping beneath the sleeve of the well-worn Evert Academy Summer Camp t-shirt, tracing the tensed line of muscle. 

Lexa remains stiff, radiating frustration, and it’s a testament to Clarke’s self-control that she doesn’t just kiss the pretty pout off those lips. Because while it might temporarily lift Lexa’s surly mood, it wouldn’t address the root cause of her irritability.

“I thought we were past this, hm? Shutting me out. I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

Several seconds pass before Lexa exhales heavily. Shoulders sagging, she leans against the Jeep. When she does finally look at Clarke, there’s a watery gleam in her eyes.

“Oh, Lex.” A soft tut. “Come here.”

Clarke puts her arms around Lexa’s neck and brings their bodies closer (as best she can when she’s impeded by the crutches Lexa has jammed under each armpit). She presses a kiss to Lexa’s jaw, feels the slight wobble of Lexa’s chin, and tightens her hold.

“If I can’t play tennis, who even am I? I don’t know how to do— _be_ —anything else.”

Lexa sounds so lost and despondent that it makes Clarke’s own eyes grow misty.

She leans away, only far enough to scan Lexa’s face. Notes the moisture that clings to delicate lashes; the quiver of Lexa’s bottom lip as she sucks in a breath, a courageous attempt to pull herself together.

Clarke wishes she could give assurances that everything will be fine, but she doesn’t know. Not for certain. And if she’s going to be of any use to Lexa, she needs to be honest.

“I hope it won’t come to that but, if it does, you’ll find a way to adapt.”

She cups Lexa’s neck. Watches as a solitary teardrop glides down the perfect slope of Lexa’s cheekbone and Clarke’s rib cage feels too small, too narrow to contain the surge of pure adoration she has for this girl.

“As cliché as it sounds, all you can do is try to stay positive. Approach your recovery one step at a time.” 

She strokes Lexa’s nape, sifting through the shorter hairs. 

“At times it’s going to be a hard slog. Some days you’ll rage and cry and feel like giving up. But you have me. Anya. Indra… And Titus, when he’s not being a complete knob,” she adds dryly. 

She holds Lexa’s gaze. “I promise we’re going to do everything we can to support you, to get you fighting fit and back on the court.”

There’s a lull.

Green eyes peer at her with a glimmer of fledgling hope. “Does that mean you’ll stay?”

“Lex…”

“I know.” Lexa’s mouth twists. “I guess we both have a big decision ahead of us.”

Clarke rests her forehead against Lexa’s and nods, their noses grazing with the shallow movement. Then she nudges forward, bringing their lips together, thrilled by Lexa’s soft sigh when they part briefly only to switch sides and reconnect.

They kiss, slow and tender, and a warm feeling spreads through Clarke’s body. She clutches at Lexa’s neck, opens her mouth, just a bit, just enough to hint at the promise of more before she backs off. Because much as she’d like to kiss Lexa madly, she’s mindful that they’re in a medical centre car park and Anya is waiting nearby, likely unimpressed by the blatant PDA.

It doesn’t help that Lexa’s eyes remain shut afterwards, that she runs her tongue over her bottom lip then sucks it behind her teeth like she’s savouring the taste transfer of Clarke’s lip balm. When her eyes open again with a slow flutter of her lashes, they’re dark and unfocused, made hazy by desire.

Suddenly, Clarke is very receptive to the idea of scrapping all other plans for the day and demanding that Anya drive them back to the condo this instant. And if Clarke was a lesser person, she’d do just that.

(Damn her principles.)

“Come on.” She sweeps her fingers over Lexa’s knuckles. They’ve gone white from how tightly Lexa is holding the grip of the crutch. “I know you’re perpetually hungry and I want to try these famous croquettes. Although, aren’t they just filled with mashed potato like they are in Britain?”

The horrified face Lexa makes is a treat. As though Clarke suggested something sacrilegious, like streaking across Centre Court in front of the Duchess of Cambridge. 

“Okay, no. You haven’t experienced Miami until you’ve had croquetas de jámon from a traditional Cuban bakery. Ground Spanish ham, rolled into bite-size logs, coated in breadcrumbs and fried until they’re a perfectly crisp golden brown.” Lexa looks wistful, staring off into space for a moment. Then her mouth downturns, “But they’re, like, fifty percent fat. Titus basically banned me from having them.”

“Well, Titus can sod off. An occasional indulgence isn’t going to ruin your diet.” Clarke drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “And I won’t tell your nutritionist if you won’t.”

She winks and the small, close-lipped smile she receives in response is a start.

  
  


***

  
  


The resurgent good spirits don’t last.

On their return to the condo, Lexa is subdued once more, a pensive crease between her brows when she announces she’s going to lie down for a while. 

Clarke battles against the immediate instinct to follow Lexa through to the bedroom, knowing that she needs some space and time alone to digest everything she’s been told by the doctors.

So, instead, Clarke grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and goes out to the balcony. She flops onto the nearest low armchair. Spends an hour listlessly watching thin wisps of clouds go by behind her sunglasses while melting in the sticky heat, not quite able to relax since she can’t seem to stop mulling over her own predicament.

The truth is that she hates the idea of being separated from Lexa again in a matter of days. The thought of spending weeks or months and continents apart, contending with time zones, working around conflicting schedules just to grab an hour here or there on Skype is anathema to her. Now she’s had another taste of what it’s like to be in Lexa’s radius, she won’t be content to settle for scraps.

At the same time, a not insignificant part of her still flinches at the prospect of such a massive upheaval, of completely uprooting her life and moving to another country for a girl she just met. 

Because Lexa can paint it as a career opportunity—and there’s no question it’s a dream job with incredible perks and a lifestyle that would be unimaginable on Clarke’s salary back home—but there’s so much more to it than that.

It’s a chance at a life, a future together.

And it fills her with equal parts exhilaration and dread.

The logistics alone are daunting. Quitting her job; arranging a work visa; finding someone trustworthy to rent the flat; packing up her possessions to either put into storage, donate to charity or ship to the States; and the most agonising dilemma of all: what to do about Bell?

Then there’s her friends. _Linc_. Her parents. 

Dad will be supportive, ever the romantic optimist urging her to follow her heart, but Mum will doubtless conduct a ruthlessly polite interrogation over tea and cake and the best china. If not openly opining then at least implying that Clarke is being too impulsive, too irrational; as if she hasn’t given the decision the proper scrutiny and examined every angle, put aside fairytale notions and considered what the reality entails.

She’s done all that and more, played devil’s advocate and talked herself in and out of it a million times.

But it ultimately boils down to this: is she prepared to drop everything to be by Lexa’s side, at the risk it could all go tits up?

  
  


***

  
  


Eventually, a combination of too much sun and a full stomach—the ham croquetas were deceptively filling and _delicious_ —as well as her internal body clock still running on London time, makes Clarke feel drained too.

Opting to join Lexa for a nap, she tiptoes into the bedroom to find the gauzy curtains drawn and Lexa bathed in diffuse golden light, dozing on her stomach on top of the covers, cheek smooshed against the pillow, breathing deeply and heavily enough that she lets out an occasional half snore. 

Charmed, Clarke listens for a bit before she strips off her leggings and crawls onto the bed, draping herself alongside Lexa. Careful as Clarke is not to rouse her, even in sleep Lexa seems attuned to her presence. Lexa stirs, mumbling, and Clarke drops a kiss on a t-shirt clad shoulder, one hand seeking the hem at Lexa’s waist and the warm skin beneath. For minutes, Clarke draws idle shapes, drags her fingertips lightly up and down Lexa’s spine, feeling the rise of goosebumps and the little tremor that goes through Lexa every time she trails over an especially sensitive spot between the shoulder blades.

“‘S’really nice,” Lexa says, a drowsy drawl that has Clarke biting down on her lip to suppress a grin. 

Lexa’s reaction to her touch, how pliant she is, the shivers and soft groans and tiny catches of breath, is addictive; deprived of it for weeks, Clarke’s more than happy to keep going.

“I’m beginning to get a sense of déjà vu,” Clarke says. “Although, I was in a decidedly more professional mode then.”

“Were you, though?” Smug.

Clarke pinches Lexa’s side. Not hard, but enough to earn a satisfying yelp.

“Didn’t you take an oath to do no harm?”

“As I’ve mentioned once or twice before, I’m not a doctor.” She resumes stroking along the smooth planes of Lexa’s back and she feels the subtle flex of muscle beneath her fingers. “If I was, I’m fairly certain I’d be in deep trouble for giving a patient under my care many, many orgasms. I’m on shaky ground as it is.”

Clarke is only partly joking. She can’t deny that the ethics of their situation has continued to play on her mind on some level. The fact of the matter is these things don’t ‘just happen’; she arrived at this grey area through a set of deliberate choices and she hasn’t quite made her peace with the uncomfortable truth that she flagrantly disregarded her own personal code of conduct, if not official CSP regulations.

The mattress dips as Lexa pushes up onto her elbows. “By my recollection, it was _me_ that pursued you.” She studies Clarke’s expression. Frowns slightly. “Are you really worried about this? Clarke. You’ve done nothing wrong, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

“I just…” Clarke lifts one shoulder and lets it drop, staring at the upturned edge of Lexa’s sleeve. “I’m conscious of how it might appear to outsiders. Surely the media are bound to ask questions about this mysterious new addition to your entourage. I expect it wouldn’t take much effort to uncover my identity and how we met.”

Then innuendos would follow and she’d be exposed for just how unprofessional she’s been. 

“Well, if they do, I’ll just tell them the truth.” Lexa’s mouth ticks up at the corner. “That I seduced you with my rockin’ bod and enormous charisma.”

Clarke hoists one eyebrow. “Is that so?” 

“Mhm.” 

“I think you’re forgetting I was the one to initiate our first kiss.”

“Then maybe you should refresh my memory.”

With a bit of ginger, awkward manoeuvring, Lexa rolls onto her back, tee riding up an inch to expose a stripe of tan skin and the hint of abs, a sight that’s entirely too tempting for Clarke to ignore.

Since she arrived, she’s been cautious. They’ve only engaged in some moderate to heavy snogging, Clarke being the one to put a moratorium on anything more for fear of aggravating Lexa’s injury.

But, gosh, not even a saint could resist when Lexa looks so soft and delectably sleep-rumpled, hair mussed and falling out of a low bun. Not when she’s giving Clarke those _eyes_.

So she allows herself to explore, pushing under the vintage cotton shirt, running a palm up the slope of Lexa’s torso. Slow; purposeful. Gazes locked onto each other as Clarke cups her hand around Lexa’s breast, feeling the nipple harden through the sports bra.

A moment later, she slides beneath the elasticated edge and Lexa makes a small noise from the back of her throat as she arches into the touch. 

That sound tugs at Clarke.

She wants to hear it again and again, along with a good few others she’s come to crave.

She circles Lexa’s nipple lazily. Drags her thumb over the erect tip and the whispered plea of “Clarke” that falls from Lexa’s lips nearly severs the last frayed thread of her self-control. 

She rallies enough to ask, “How are you on the pain scale at the moment?” 

Lexa hesitates, only to be pinned by a forbidding look that demands total honesty.

A swallow. “Four.”

Clarke starts to withdraw but Lexa catches her wrist, a silent entreaty in her gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt you, darling,” Clarke says, equally imploring.

It’s a second or two before she realises the verbal slip, mainly because Lexa is staring at her with large, glowing eyes filled with astonished delight and Clarke has to mentally backtrack to pinpoint why. Something inside does a little somersault then but she pretends to take it in stride, as though it doesn’t warrant any fuss.

Except the slight crack in her voice betrays her when she warns, “If that hamstring snaps because you’ve attempted to do some sexual gymnastics…”

“What if I just lie back and think of England instead?” Lexa’s mouth curls a bit. “Or one specific English girl?”

“I’d rather you were a full and active participant,” is Clarke’s clipped reply. She shakes her head. “I mean it. I’d be cross with myself if I made things worse.”

“Yeah, well, nothing is worse than having you here in my bed and being too afraid to touch me.”

Lexa speaks so softly, with such an air of mournful dejection, that it leaves Clarke quietly stunned. It hadn’t occurred to her that by holding back she was inflicting a different sort of pain.

A hand shifts to cover Clarke’s and Lexa presses down with purpose, jointly kneading the warm mound below. Both their breaths hitch in unison. 

“Please. I need this. I need you, Clarke.”

The plaintiveness, the look of undisguised yearning and the sad pout that accompanies it is all too much.

It breaks Clarke; dismantles her opposition.

Makes her heart lurch and her stomach swoop and in the next breath, she’s kissing Lexa. Communicating through action that she’s here, that she’s sorry, that she needs this physical reconnection just as much as Lexa does.

She thrives on it. Every sensation. The wet glide of Lexa’s inner lip as their mouths open; the humid puff of Lexa’s breath; the fingers that thread into Clarke’s hair, gently tugging at her scalp; the bump of Lexa’s nipple against the centre of her palm while she grasps that perfect little boob.

The reality is all so much greater, sharper, more visceral than Clarke’s hazy memories of the post-Wimbledon fortnight, the solo fantasies and the touching by proxy during their Skype calls.  

She fits her hand more firmly around the swell of Lexa’s breast; squeezes once, and Lexa’s soft gasp is electrifying, a current that sparks through Clarke’s body, dissipating into a dull throb between her legs.

“You have to stop me,” she gets out between kisses, the words mumbled against Lexa’s lips. “If it becomes too much, you have to stop me.”

“Not possible.” 

Lexa uses her grip on Clarke’s hair to tilt her head the other way, to pursue her mouth with the kind of gentle yet singular determination that leaves Clarke trembling with arousal when she retreats.

“Lex, promise me.” If she wasn’t so turned on she might be embarrassed that her voice is such a husky croak.

She stares, waiting.

The silence lengthens until Lexa gives a slight roll of her eyes. She concedes with a nod and a sigh.

With that condition established, Clarke is quick to relieve Lexa of her t-shirt and bra. She indulges herself, feasting her eyes over every inch of Lexa’s bare torso, starting from the v-line that peeks above Lexa’s shorts and working her way gradually upwards, taking in the subtle definition of the intersections between tight abdominals and the modest rise of Lexa’s pale boobs. Their ghostly whiteness is such a glorious contrast to the expanse of otherwise golden skin and the twin points of pebbled pink nipples act like a beacon for Clarke’s gaze. She can almost taste them, feel their phantom shape and texture in her mouth.

When she forces her eyes up at last, she discovers Lexa’s are pitch dark, pupils so large they’re like shimmering black pools. It sends another tiny shock racing through Clarke’s system, makes her feel flushed and warm all over, causes a fresh spill to dampen the gusset of her knickers.

Lexa’s throat bobs, a slow gulp before she licks her lips and says, “Take off your shirt.”

Clarke does, tossing the article of clothing aside. She reaches behind to unfasten her bra but Lexa’s hasty “no” gives her pause. 

Bemused, Clarke glances downwards. This bra veers more towards the ‘M&S sensible and comfy support garment’ end of the lingerie spectrum than Victoria’s Secret seductiveness yet Lexa seems just as entranced. 

“Really?”

“Cleavage.”

“Has rendered you incapable of speaking in complete sentences, I see.”

“Articulacy is so overrated.”

Unable to tamp down on a smile, Clarke crawls forward and it doesn’t escape her notice that Lexa’s eyes remained glued to her chest or that Lexa’s mouth has dropped slightly.

And, honestly, Clarke feels fucking good to have elicited such a response even if she _is_ wearing a style of bra more favoured by middle-aged housewives.

She puts her hands on Lexa’s abs, thumbs sweeping inwards.

“Luckily, conversation isn’t top of my agenda.” 

Without warning, Clarke leans down to lick a broad stripe up the midline depression of Lexa’s torso. Tensed muscles leap under her palms and the whispered curse Lexa lets out is the most persuasive kind of encouragement.

Clarke places a kiss between Lexa’s breasts. She turns her face to suck at the soft underside of one, drags her open mouth across pale flesh to reach her intended goal. She runs her tongue around the swollen peak, all languid circuits and teasing swirls and the occasional scrape of teeth over the tip. Divides her attention, alternating between each breast until Lexa is straining forward and breathing loud and heavy through her nostrils.

Only then does Clarke let a hand meander lower, delving beneath the waistband of Lexa’s shorts and into her underwear.

She releases Lexa’s nipple with a groan. 

It’s like an oil slick waiting for her between Lexa’s thighs. Lexa, so wet and so ready for Clarke’s fingers that she feels a sympathetic deep ache.

And although she dearly wants to sink right in, wants to see Lexa arch as she pushes inside, Clarke ignores that impulse.

They aren’t in any rush.

She takes the time to reacquaint herself by touch. 

She combs through the sparse hair, something exciting about the spiky regrowth she encounters when she veers off to the sides. 

“Sorry. I, uh, haven’t shaved since…” Lexa trails off self-consciously. Her ears have gone scarlet. “My leg makes it awkward in the shower so.”

“Don’t apologise for having body hair. I really couldn’t give a toss about a few extra pubes.” 

To illustrate the point Clarke runs her fingers over the stubble again and Lexa relaxes perceptibly, moving her uninjured leg to give Clarke more room to explore.

“So you wouldn’t complain if I went full Wookiee?”

Clarke strays lower, revelling in the small jump of hips when she slides a single digit through Lexa. Just a shallow tease to test how aroused she is, which is… _fuck_ , very.

“As long as I can braid it out the way when I go down on you.” Clarke smirks. “Anyway, you should see my British winter pelt.”

The answering huff of laughter spreads warmth through Clarke’s chest. But she likes it even better when that laugh morphs into a thick gasp as her finger makes another slow pass, gliding over Lexa’s clit this time. She retraces the same path over and over, dipping a little closer to the source of the wetness with each stroke, all the while dropping kisses across Lexa’s sternum, now and then taking a detour towards Lexa’s nipples to bring each to a stiff point again with soft licks and gentle suction.

Despite the lightness of Clarke’s touch, there’s a solemn weight to every press of her lips, every caress, every moment of shared eye contact. She handles Lexa with reverence. Is wholly devoted to drawing forth as many of those life-affirming gasps and shivers and whines as she can.

By the time both of Lexa’s hands find purchase in Clarke’s hair, gathering the locks loosely in one fist, Lexa is squirming beneath Clarke’s greedy mouth, hips lifting slightly whenever Clarke’s fingers skim around her entrance.

“Clarke,” Lexa says with a little growl of frustration.

“Don’t wriggle so much,” is Clarke’s mild reply, muffled by boob. “It won’t help your hamstring.”

“Well, if you’d just—”

Lexa cuts herself off on a sharp intake of breath when Clarke finally eases two fingers inside. She looks up to watch Lexa’s expression as she begins to move and it’s nearly her undoing. Hooded eyes stare back at her and there’s something about their unwavering connection, the heavy intimacy of it while she pumps her wrist and glides smoothly in and out that she finds overwhelming.

“Is this okay? Am I hurting you?”

“It’s good,” Lexa assures, sounding as awed as Clarke feels. She urges Clarke up, cradles her jaw with one hand, dark gaze sweeping over her face with soft, open hunger. “You’re always so good. Perfect.” 

Then Lexa kisses her slow and deep and the addition of tongue scrambles Clarke’s brain. Somehow, she finds the wherewithal to keep thrusting, a measured rhythm that Lexa rocks her pelvis down to meet in spite of Clarke’s earlier warning. Soon she adds a thumb to the mix, sweeping over Lexa’s engorged clit each time she curls her fingertips inside. The kisses become wetter, messier; interrupted by laboured breaths and the noises that spill from Lexa’s open mouth into Clarke’s, pitching higher and louder by the minute. Until at last, Lexa tips her head back and unleashes a strangled shout at the ceiling, one that tapers off into a string of gasps. 

Muscles clench and pulse as Lexa shudders around Clarke’s fingers, liquid heat flooding the spaces between, and she doesn’t take the pressure off Lexa’s clit, doesn’t stop rubbing at the soft, spongy tissue beneath the tips of her fingers. Only once Lexa tugs desperately on her hair, other hand scrambling to grab at her wrist, does Clarke relent.

With a gentle, lingering kiss to Lexa’s collarbone, Clarke withdraws from Lexa’s shorts and settles by her side. She places her palm flat on Lexa’s midsection to feel the rapid rise and fall of her diaphragm, how sweat-slicked abs tense and contract as Lexa draws air into her lungs.

After a minute, Lexa sighs shakily. “Fuck.”

“I did, yes.”

Lexa drapes a forearm over her eyes. A little breathless laugh bubbles up. She peers at Clarke from beneath the cover of her wrist, coy and half smiling, and there’s something about that look that has Clarke equally short of breath too.

She stares and stares while the blood pounds in her ears and she tries to calm the wild flutter of her heartbeat.

The moment stretches too long and Lexa drops her arm, head cocked to the side as she regards Clarke. “You okay there, Doc?”

“Of course,” Clarke deflects. She turns the question back on Lexa pointedly. “Are you? How’s the thigh?”

“Ask me again later.” Green eyes shine with devilish intent. “After I’ve made you come at least, oh, three times.”

Off Clarke’s pursed-lipped disapproval, Lexa’s smile only burrows deeper into her cheeks. She picks up Clarke’s hand where it rests on her stomach and tugs meaningfully. And against Clarke’s better judgement, she allows Lexa to pull her up. Doesn’t object when she finds herself with a knee planted on either side of Lexa’s shoulders, looming over Lexa’s supine body and casting a long shadow over that beautiful face.

She has a strong inkling of what Lexa plans to do and while Clarke is undeniably excited—there’s a puddle approximately the size of Lake Windermere in her knickers to prove it—she can’t cast off the small wriggle of doubt. 

“Lex, you don’t have to.”

“Uh, yes, I _really_ fucking do.” Lexa shakes her head. “God, do you have any idea how much I’ve thought about this? About you? It’s killing me.” 

She gazes up at Clarke, unblinking; eyes dark and huge as they flit all over her features. Hands settle upon Clarke’s waist, fingers splayed wide against her skin, and heat coils in her belly. 

“So dramatic.”

“Always.”

They share a look and Clarke is in such thrall, basking in the tenderness and desire she sees reflected back at her. 

She doesn’t have it in her to refuse Lexa. Not now.

Without saying another word, Clarke pushes her underwear down and Lexa barely waits to drag Clarke closer by the hips. That first lick, a broad sweep from bottom to top, the way Lexa groans into it with such enthusiasm, makes Clarke cry out.

She puts both hands against the wall for balance. Widens her stance as best she can with her knickers bunched around mid-thigh. Braces herself for the next swipe and she can’t contain a ragged gasp as Lexa’s tongue runs fully through her. 

But when the heat of Lexa’s mouth disappears a second later, Clarke is left cruelly wanting. She blows out a frustrated breath and glances down, about to vocalise her impatience only to be silenced by Lexa’s expression.

Completely taken by the sight of those lips, parted and plump and shiny. 

The shimmer of wetness on Lexa’s chin.

Half-lidded eyes that stay fastened on Clarke as she hovers an inch above Lexa’s face, close enough to feel a faint breeze every time Lexa breathes in and out.

And when Lexa looks up at last, a slow blink before she refocuses, the unbridled thirst in that stare is nearly enough to topple Clarke.

Without conscious thought, she drops her hips and _rolls_ , shivering hard as Lexa’s mouth engulfs her once again.

  
  


***

  
  


“Are you positive you don’t want me to hang around?” Clarke asks as Lexa hobbles a few steps on her crutches towards the passenger side door of the Jeep. “I don’t mind waiting.”

Full lips tilt up. “Admit it. You just can’t get enough of me.”

Lexa says it lowly; a gloating tease.

And conscious as Clarke is of Anya sitting next to her, she feels her body react to that tone, to the twinkle in Lexa’s eyes, how they seem to shine even more brilliantly once Lexa notices the telltale bloom of pinkness on Clarke’s cheeks.

“It’s more that I’m concerned you might fall,” she responds crisply. “Your technique with those crutches is frankly appalling.”

“Funny, you weren’t complaining about my technique earlier.”

The insinuation, coupled with Lexa’s boastful bravado causes Clarke’s blush to deepen by a shade or two. 

Since they had sex yesterday evening (and last night and twice more this morning) Lexa’s attitude has been transformed. She even took her meds without any coercion, swallowing the pills with minimal fuss and a peck on Clarke’s cheek before they departed. Now, with this return to familiar form, it’s all Clarke can do not to yank Lexa closer by the front of her shirt and wipe that knowing smirk off her lips.

Instead, Clarke clears her throat. “And the slouching.” She tuts. “At this rate, I’ll have to work on your back, shoulders and neck as well as your hamstring.”

“It’s okay. No need to make excuses to get your hands all over me, Clarke.”

Any doubts they might’ve had about Anya eavesdropping are dispelled when she makes a vaguely disgusted noise and turns the radio up.

“Anyway.” Lexa straightens her posture. “I’ll just be a couple of hours here. Indra’s probably panicking about how I’m going to pay her management fees without any prize money coming in for the foreseeable future.” 

Faced with Clarke’s slight frown, Lexa offers an easy smile. “I’m exaggerating. I’ve made solid investments with my tournament earnings and sponsorship income over the years. Everything’s fine.” Her eyes find Clarke’s. “Seriously, don’t worry.”

“Yeah, Indra’s got this one’s money locked up tighter than a nun’s drawers,” Anya remarks flatly. “Not saying she’s a stingy bugger but last Crimbo she gave me a twenty dollar gift card for Foot Locker and some Nike freebies she didn’t want.”

“You’re conveniently leaving out the part where I used my frequent flier miles so you could fly home for the holidays. Business class.”

Anya bobs her head. “Fair dinkum. You got me there.” 

A pause. 

“Did I tell you the rellies kept asking me when you’re gonna propose?” She inspects her nails. “Ma thinks it’s terrible that you’re holding out for the sake of a prenup.”

“What?” Lexa splutters, bewildered. “Why… why would she think—” She halts suddenly. Her eyebrows knit. “Wait a minute. After that misunderstanding about the sleeping arrangements, I thought you explained our relationship is strictly platonic? Anya! Have you been lying to your family this whole time?”

Anya shrugs. “Beats being set up with some daggy cousin twice removed who works as an actuary in Canberra.”

Lexa looks helplessly at Clarke, seeking rescue, but she just chuckles. “Oh, don’t involve me in your lovers’ tiff. As the _other woman_ , I’m staying well out of it.”

It earns her an indignant huff. A grumbled, “I don’t think I like you two ganging up on me.”

She reaches out and pats Lexa’s cheek gently.

“Better get used to it, Lex.”

“Say g’day to Indra for me!” Anya calls out as she throws the Jeep into gear and hits the gas, leaving a pouty, scowling Lexa in their wake.

“So… what exactly was this misunderstanding about?” Clarke asks once they’ve sped a couple of blocks away. The shade from the tall buildings that flank the wide boulevard provides welcome relief from the oppressive heat and she uses the respite to surreptitiously pluck at the sundress where it sticks to her body, adhered by underboob sweat. 

“Oh, yeah. Funny story that.” Anya smirks to herself as she flicks the indicator on before changing lanes. “After Lexa won the Australian Open, we took off to see my parents in Brizzie for a couple of days before heading to the Gold Coast. They live in a small house out in the suburbs, not much space, so we had to share my old single bedroom for the duration.”

“I think I can take a stab at where this is going...”

“The first morning, Ma came bursting through the door with brekkie on a tray to find me spooning Lexa, my hand stuffed up her shirt. Apparently, I’m a sleep groper.”

Clarke snorts. “What happened then?”

“Ma shrieked and dropped the tray. Startled us both awake and we spent the rest of the trip pretending I wasn’t intimately acquainted with Lexa’s mozzie bites.”

“Oh god,” Clarke chortles, perfectly able to imagine Lexa’s stiff discomfort. “And you really never set the record straight? So to speak.”

“Like I said, if the oldies think I’m shacked up with a rich white Yank then they aren’t gonna try pimping me out to every son or daughter of a family friend with an MBA.”

“Hm. I suppose.”

They lapse into companionable silence until Anya takes a right at the next intersection and Clarke comes to the realisation that they’re driving in the opposite direction of South Beach.

“Where are you taking me, by the way?”

“Well… since we’ve got some free time, how about I show you around the training facility? You can give it a gander. See how it fits.”

“Anya.” A sigh. “Did she put you up to this?”

“Nah, I just reckon you should have all the facts before you make a bloody great life-altering decision. If you take the job, you’re gonna be based out of here most of the time when Lex isn’t travelling or competing. At least check the place out, ey?”

Clarke can’t really fault the logic but she still feels a bit ambushed. Although, if she’s being truthful, she _is_ rather curious to see where Lexa trains. As it turns out, the facility is located within a secluded estate in what is clearly one of the wealthier enclaves of the city, surrounded by white-washed villas and Spanish colonial style mansions, tall palm trees and pockets of lush greenery.

Anya gives her a guided tour of the practice courts, takes Clarke around the state-of-the-art gym and the Olympic-size swimming pool. Shows her spacious treatment rooms with shiny new high-spec equipment that would make Lincoln green with envy if he could see it all. The place even has access to a mile-long stretch of private beach and there’s an al fresco restaurant on-site that caters to every dietary regimen one could think of.

That’s where they end up, enjoying refreshments on the patio that overlooks the courts on one side and Biscayne Bay on the other. There’s a group of children taking turns hitting with the ball machine on the nearest court and the continuous thwack of ball against racket is a strangely zen accompaniment to the breaking of the waves.

“Sweet as, isn’t it?”

Clarke lifts her eyebrows and blows out a breath. “Yes.” 

She gazes out at the horizon, where the endless blue sky meets the equally vast ocean. It’s an idyllic spot, unquestionably beautiful, and the facility itself is beyond impressive. There’s nothing like it in England or anywhere else in the UK.

“Wait ‘til you see the condo. Helluva view, stone’s throw from the beach, heaps of great bars and restaurants nearby. And the clincher?” Anya pauses to take a sip of her cold pressed juice. “I’m in the same building so we’ll practically be neighbours.”

Clarke looks at her for a long moment, quietly assessing. “If Lexa didn’t ask you to plead her case then why are you doing this? I don’t believe for a second that you really care about my career advancement.”

“Aside from the fact I think you’d be off your rocker to turn it down?” Anya purses her lips, expression inscrutable behind her shades. “Alright, so maybe I do have a personal stake in it. I mean, I’m the poor fucker that’s gonna have to put up with misery guts and her constant whingeing if you say no.”

She softens a bit. “Truth is, I haven’t seen her like this for yonks. Arse over tits for someone.”

It’s silly but Clarke blushes slightly. She glances at her lap and fiddles with the hem of her dress. Says at last, “Well, the feeling is mutual.”

“No shit,” Anya deadpans. “Stands out like a shag on a rock. Look, if you’re deadset on making a go of it with her, this is probably your best shot.”

And that’s the crux of it. The condo near the beach, the climate, the international travel, never having to lay hands on an arrogant Premiership football player again—it’s all inconsequential. The only incentive Clarke needs, the only one that truly matters is Lexa.

Deep down, she’s known it all along.

She draws in a breath and lifts her phone from the bench. Takes a snap and sends it to the UEA alumni group chat in WhatsApp, accompanied by a sunglasses emoji and the caption: 

_What do you think of the view from my new office?_

  
  


***

  
  


When Anya drops her back at the condo, Clarke is too wrapped up in nervous excitement to offer more than a distracted “thanks” as she leaps out the vehicle. If Anya makes a sarcastic parting remark, Clarke doesn’t hear it.

In the lift she ignores the repeated _plick_ of her phone. It’s been blowing up with messages since she made the announcement, a near-constant stream of well-wishes and congratulations and a smug “told you so” from Lincoln which she’ll respond to later.

Lexa’s at the kitchen island when Clarke lets herself in, crutches propped against the counter within comfortable reach while she chops a banana into chunks and tips it into the blender.

The sight stops Clarke dead in her tracks. Lit by the sunshine pouring through the floor to ceiling windows, hair down and scooped to one side, casual in a ribbed tank top and low-slung tracksuit bottoms, Lexa is _stunning_. All Clarke can do is stare for a moment. Drink it all in, unobserved, an entire sanctuary of butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

She blinks rapidly, a hasty recalibration of her brain before she steps forward and forces out a greeting.

Lexa looks up with a bright smile. “Hey. Want to share a smoothie with m—”

Something in Clarke’s expression must trigger concern because Lexa’s eyebrows pull together. She half turns, gripping the edge of the island for support. 

“Clarke, is everything okay?”

And in that instant, the tension and trepidation drains from Clarke. She rushes forward, crossing the kitchen in a few quick strides, and cups Lexa’s cheeks in her hands. 

“Yes.”

Lexa looks at her, nonplussed, and Clarke can’t hold back a chuckle at the confusion that lingers. 

So she repeats herself. Emphatically. Staring into Lexa’s eyes until her meaning becomes clear. She sees the split-second Lexa catches on. The way Lexa’s entire face lights up and she whispers eagerly, “Yes?”

Clarke nods, snagging her bottom lip between her teeth. She drops her hands to Lexa’s waist and squeezes. “Yes, Lex.”

She’s seized in a bone-crushing hug, arms wrapping around her so tightly that it makes the air whoosh from her lungs. And Clarke clings on just as fiercely, fingers bunching the soft fabric of Lexa’s top.

Lexa peppers Clarke with kisses: her neck, the edge of her jaw, every inch of her cheek until Clarke draws back with a laugh, only for it to be smothered by the sudden, forceful press of Lexa’s lips to her own. 

Lexa pulls away just as abruptly. “We should celebrate. I want to take you out.”

“Not so fast,” Clarke says, bringing a hand to Lexa’s sternum to ward off another kiss. “I have conditions.”

Lexa looks at her curiously. “Go on.”

“Firstly, you’ll pay me commensurate with my level of experience, based on the average salary for senior physios in this part of the country.” Clarke doesn’t allow Lexa the opportunity to interject. “Not double or triple or anything outrageous like that.”

“1.5? Miami is an expensive city.”

“Lexa.”

“Well, can we at least agree on a bonus structure then? A percentage based on my tournament results? And that we’ll review everything annually? Before you accuse me of special treatment, Titus and Anya have the same deal.”

“Alright,” Clarke concedes. It’s only fair. “Secondly, generous as the offer of the condo is, I want to find my own place to live. Preferably no higher than the fourth floor.”

At that, Lexa’s puzzled frown returns. “But, why? I mean, besides the vertigo. It’s in a nice neighbourhood, only a few blocks away from here. And it’s rent-free, utilities included.”

“That’s the point. I’ve always paid my way for everything I have.” Clarke’s voice is firm. “I’m not about to be anyone’s kept woman.”

“Clarke, I admire your independence but it just doesn’t make any sense to incur unnecessary extra living expenses when there’s an empty condo available to you.”

“I won’t budge on this, Lexa.”

They stare at each other, both adamant and entrenched in their opinions on the matter.

The impasse lasts for half a minute before Lexa relents.

“If you’re going to be obstinate about it...”

“Oh, I am.”

Lexa rolls her eyes a little. “I guess I can ask Indra to help with affordable rental suggestions, as long as you let me or Anya view them in person.”

“Good. I’d appreciate it.”

Clarke’s hand drifts over Lexa’s collarbone and up the side of her neck, slipping around to toy with the little curls at the nape. She feels Lexa relax into the conciliatory touch, the arms looped around Clarke’s waist loosening fractionally but still holding her close.

“Any other stipulations or can I assume our negotiations are done?” Lexa asks with a wry lift of one eyebrow.

“Nothing else comes to mind.” Clarke’s gaze flicks between the slight curve of Lexa’s mouth to her eyes and back again. “Now, about that celebration you mentioned...”

“Where would you like to go?”

Clarke uses her body to back Lexa against the island with a shuffling hop. Her hand drops between them, reaching for the knotted drawstring at Lexa’s waist. Tugs once, and her pulse leaps at the audible hitch of Lexa’s breath, the sudden dilation of Lexa’s pupils, the flash of those dark eyes towards her lips.

“I’m thinking the couch to begin with and let’s see where we end up from there, hm?”

  
  


***

  
  


They go at it for hours.

Clarke loses track of how many times she buckles under Lexa’s tongue, shatters by Lexa’s hand. She has no idea where Lexa finds this seemingly indefatigable store of energy, but Clarke’s own reserves are eventually depleted once pastel colours have begun to creep into the sky. She finally flops against the sheets, pushing weakly at Lexa’s shoulders where she lies prone, bracketed by Clarke’s drawn up knees.

Lexa lifts her mouth away as she removes her fingers and, God, that _look_ —like Lexa is high on the taste of her, blissed out and greedy for the next fix—is enough to make Clarke tremble anew. And when Lexa’s lips fasten around long, slender fingers, sucking them clean, Clarke has to shut her eyes against the sight to preserve her sanity. She doesn’t open them again until she feels the dip of the mattress beside her, Lexa arranging herself into a comfortable position.

For a while, Clarke just focuses on the simple act of breathing, the steady inflation and deflation of her lungs while the perspiration dries on her skin and the AC blasts cool air into the room. At last she stretches, luxuriating in the slight soreness of her muscles; that deep, pleasant kind of ache in her thighs and calves, stomach and glutes that will stay with her tomorrow. 

And much as she’s opposed to leaving this bed, or moving at all really, it isn’t long before hunger makes itself known by the persistent grumble of her empty stomach. 

(Having gone without anything substantial since breakfast, she could happily demolish ten croquetas all by herself with no regrets.)

She rolls onto her side and sighs, “We should eat something.” She spots a faint smirk, and clarifies, “Food, Lex.”

“Sorry. It’s just…” Lexa reaches for Clarke’s hand, holding it captive in both of her own. She breathes out. “You’ll be gone soon.”

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

Lexa’s lips twitch and she nods subtly. She moves her thumbs over Clarke’s palm, feeling out the delicate bones, rubbing in slow circles. 

Indolent moments pass. 

Clarke’s eyelids begin to droop. She’s halfway to dozing off when Lexa murmurs, “I’m going to have the surgery.”

Though the words are soft-spoken, they’re threaded through with steely resolve at their core.

Clarke studies Lexa in silence, searching for any hint of doubt. 

“It isn’t a magic bullet.”

“I’m aware.” Lexa’s jaw tenses then relaxes by a fraction. “But when I face Ontari again, I can’t be afraid of my hamstring giving out. I’ve got to be at my best. So if this procedure really does have the success rate that Dr Primus claims, then I need to go through with it.” 

Something sparks in Lexa’s eyes then, a fierce glint that matches the hardened timbre of her voice when she continues, “Because I don’t just want to win, Clarke. I want to do it decisively. I want to fucking _annihilate_ Ontari at Wimbledon next year and prove to Nia and all the other detractors that my first Slam wasn’t a fluke.”

This ruthless streak, a trait that only manifests in Lexa’s sport, is far sexier than Clarke is willing to admit.

“I believe it,” Clarke says, ignoring the low flutter in her belly. “I have complete faith you’ll wipe the floor with her on Centre Court. And I’ll be there to cheer you on.”

“Yeah?” A tiny grin pulls at Lexa’s lips. “Will you get riled up if a point doesn’t go my way? Yell at the chair umpire? Call them a wanker?”

Clarke can’t deny she gets a kick out of Lexa’s use of British slang but she hides her delight behind a scoff.

“Never. I’d hurl far more creative insults than that.”

“Mm, I can see it now. You and Anya getting ejected from the players’ box for being too rowdy after one too many Pimm’s and lemonade.”

“Somehow, Anya doesn’t strike me as the Pimm’s type.”

Lexa laughs. “True.”

She resumes the hand massage once they lapse into silence again, using gentle pressure to work over each of Clarke’s knuckles in turn, to trace the creases that dissect her palm.

“Huh. You have a doubled head line.”

Clarke squints down at her hand. “...I do?”

“It’s rare. It means you have extraordinary mental strength.” 

“A kinder way of saying I’m stubborn as hell, but I’ll take it.”

“And this.” Lexa follows the thin line that begins in the middle of Clarke’s hand and arcs towards her pinkie. “This tells me you fall in love easily. But here—” The ticklish brush of Lexa’s finger towards the wrist sends a little zap of electricity up Clarke’s arm. “See how it ends so far down? It signifies caution in relationships.”

Green eyes flit up and the moment stretches while they share a weighty look.

Clarke moistens her lips. “Closet expert in palmistry, are you?”

“You have your knitting, I have this,” Lexa teases but she grows sombre again. “My grandmother taught me the basics. Supposedly, there’s Roma in our bloodline going back a few generations.”

“And you genuinely subscribe to this stuff?” Clarke asks. “I mean, isn’t it all just superstitious hokum? No offence to your granny.”

A shrug. “Maybe. It’s interpretive; more art than science.” 

Lexa still hasn’t let go.

“But, since you’re a non-believer, I guess you don’t want to know your future…” 

Clarke sends Lexa a dubious look, aware that she’s being baited. Against her better instincts, she sighs. Rolls her eyes. “Alright, Mystic Meg. Do your thing.”

She waits while Lexa inspects her palm and makes a series of thoughtful noises. “Your life line shows a sudden change of lifestyle. Perhaps a new career on the horizon.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And, oh!” Lexa gasps quietly. “According to your heart line, a devastatingly attractive and charming American tennis player is going to sweep you off your feet.”

Clarke pulls her hand away with a harrumph. “You’re impossible. And a rascal, might I add.”

“Impossible to resist, sure.”

Lexa huddles a bit closer, close enough that Clarke could crane her neck forward to kiss her. She’s tempted, but that would just add credence to Lexa’s boast and they’ve already established Clarke’s contrariness.

“I suppose you’ll do for now, while I wait for that charming compatriot you mentioned to come along.”

“Wow, cold.” 

A pause.

Lexa bites her lip as her eyes drift over Clarke’s features. “Here I was about to tell you I love you. Glad I kept that to myself.”

Seconds trickle by and Clarke stares, unblinking, while her heart spasms hard and warmth flushes through her entire system. She half-expects Lexa to backtrack but she just looks at Clarke, calm and collected. Patiently waiting for a response.

A knot forms in Clarke’s throat but she manages to get out, “I _am_ very loveable.”

“Clarke.” There’s a note of appeal in it, a gentle plea to be serious, relayed also by the subtle tightening of Lexa’s eyes.

It’s a quiet reckoning, one Clarke can’t shy away from. If Lexa is brave enough to reveal the truth of what’s in her heart then doesn’t Clarke owe her the same honesty?

“Lex,” she whispers, unable to mask the small waver in her voice. “I—God.” She shakes her head slowly. “I wasn’t prepared for you. At all. I didn’t expect _any_ of this the first time I saw you in the waiting room and you gawked at me.”

“I didn’t gawk. There was no gawking.”

Clarke ignores the pouty objection. 

“You barged into my life and upended everything and… nobody has ever made me feel like this. Elated when I’m with you, wretched when we’re apart, added to that a healthy measure of fear that it’s all happening far too quickly and therefore must be doomed to failure and a bitter, acrimonious end.”

Lexa’s eyes widen slightly in alarm and Clarke is quick to offer reassurance, stroking a thumb over a high cheekbone. 

“Sorry, we Brits tend to be a pessimistic bunch.” She pauses, letting her lungs expand fully before she pushes out a shaky breath. “What I’m trying to say in a rather roundabout, bumbling, Hugh Grant in Four Weddings-esque inept fashion, is that I… I love you too.”

Lexa’s eyes shine. She smiles. Preens, actually, and it’s imperative to Clarke that they be kissing now. She doesn’t hesitate to fit a hand behind Lexa’s neck to bring her that last inch nearer. To pour everything into the press of their lips.

It’s met with equal fervour and Clarke soars.

“I nearly told you,” Lexa murmurs, “so many times.”

An arm winds around Clarke’s waist to scoop her closer, as though Lexa can’t tolerate a single atom taking up space between their bodies. Skin flush against skin, Clarke tingles, electrified by every point of contact, from the soft crush of their breasts to the solid resistance of Lexa’s stomach to the tangle of their toes.

“Why didn’t you?” Clarke asks in the brief moment before their mouths collide again, surging together with gentle urgency. 

Fingers skate along her spine and sink into her hair and she leverages up onto an elbow to tilt further, deeper into the kiss for a minute.

A small tug on her hair later and she breaks away only to lavish Lexa’s throat with attention instead, to suck lightly at the sensitive skin below the hinge of Lexa’s jaw.

“I didn’t want to—” Lexa lets out a soft sound when Clarke’s teeth graze over the same spot. “—to heap even more pressure on you when you were already struggling.”

Clarke works her mouth lower, lingering over the purplish mark on Lexa’s clavicle, a souvenir from Clarke’s third or fourth orgasm. She kisses it reverently, apologetically.

“Plus… I was worried I’d scare you off by admitting I fell in love with you within, like, two weeks. That’s intense, even for me.”

Clarke draws back to stare, dumbfounded and slightly incredulous, because how could she be anything but flattered?

“Lex, you beautiful, noble idiot.”

The next kiss is filled with such gentle, swooning adoration that Clarke’s chest aches with every seismic thud of her heartbeat. 

She feels Lexa’s mouth curve up, smiling into it, and then Lexa laughs. More of a giggle, really, and Clarke cherishes the sound.

“What’s so amusing?” Clarke asks, nudging the tip of her nose against Lexa’s as they part. 

“Nothing.” Lexa’s smile turns impish; secretive. Hooded eyes stay trained on Clarke, holding a glimmer of self-satisfaction. “Just, you _love_ me.”

Clarke feigns an eye roll. “I should’ve known you’d be like this. I should’ve drawn it out for longer. Made you sweat a bit.”

“I’ve sweated plenty in the past few hours.”

Clarke catches only a brief glimpse of white teeth and the pink of Lexa’s gums before she’s drawn into another leisurely kiss, before Lexa takes her wrist and guides her hand low.

And the staggering wetness Clarke finds, the tiny whimper exhaled into her mouth is all she needs to convince her.

Dinner can wait.

  
  


***

  
  


Pen poised in hand, Clarke hesitates before signing on the dotted line.

She shifts in her chair.

“Sorry, this clause 2.4? I’m not clear on what exactly—”

“It means,” Titus mutters gruffly from his position by the window, “you agree not to sue for compensation should you quit—or get fired—as a result of irreconcilable personal differences.” He gives her a dismissive once-over. “In other words, when you break up.”

Astonished to hear it put so bluntly, she falters, only to then bristle at the implication that her relationship with Lexa is bound to end sooner or later.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Titus,” Lexa grits out.

Clarke glances at Lexa, noting the dark glower on her face as she stares Titus down, a silent challenge passing between them. The air prickles with it. But when Lexa meets Clarke’s eyes and offers an encouraging smile, all traces of hostility are gone. 

“It’s nothing to worry about, Clarke. It’s standard. Indra makes everyone sign the waiver.” 

“I do,” Indra confirms, impassive. “Protecting Lexa’s interests is my number one concern. As I’m sure you can understand.”

“Well, yes. Of course.” 

Clarke deliberates for a few more seconds before she signs and dates the document then prints her name on the line below.

Only once she pushes the small stack of papers towards Indra does the woman finally crack a thin smile, her intimidating demeanour giving way to something marginally less frosty.

“Welcome to the team, Clarke.”

For her part, Lexa practically beams, and from the corner of her eye, Clarke sees Titus fold his arms and turn away, displeasure broadcast loud and clear in his rigid frame. 

_Let him sulk_ , she thinks. They aren’t under any obligation to get along but, provided he keeps out of her way and lets her do her job, they don’t need to be at loggerheads. 

She ignores him for now and tunes back into what Indra is saying.

“—mentioned that you’re looking for somewhere to rent, so I took the liberty of compiling a few listings. I’m happy to handle any rental application paperwork and arrange the transfer of funds for the deposit on your behalf.”

Indra passes her a folder and Clarke accepts it graciously, impressed by the woman’s smooth efficiency. She flips quickly through the bundle of print-outs contained within and nods her thanks. “I’ll look these over and get back to you as soon as possible.”

Before the meeting concludes, there are a few more formalities about the submission of visa paperwork to the US Citizenship and Immigration Services, acronyms and dauntingly-named official forms, the intricacies of which elude Clarke, but Indra assures her that everything is under control, that she’ll exert influence over her contacts at USCIS to expedite the approval process.

Clarke shakes Indra’s hand, entirely unsurprised that Titus spares only a sour glance as they exit.

”Well… he looked as thrilled as I expected,” Clarke says with deep sarcasm while they wait for the lift.

Lexa leans heavily on her crutches. Sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Let’s just enjoy the rest of the day, alright? Don’t allow him to spoil things.”

The doors slide open and they step inside. Clarke punches the button for the ground floor. Once the lift starts to descend, she sidles closer to Lexa. Lays a hand flat against Lexa’s chest and leans up to place a delicate kiss to the corner of her mouth. 

“Today is about us and making the most of the precious time we have remaining. So forget about Titus. Focus on me.”

Lexa’s gaze strays to the vicinity of Clarke’s cleavage. “Trust me, I am.”

When she lifts her eyes, the pupils are larger than before and Clarke feels inexorably drawn in.

“Any particular activities you had in mind for today?” Lexa asks, low and suggestive. “Because there are a couple of things I could show you…”

Clarke smirks. “Marvellous as your body is, I’d like to see a bit more of the city’s other attractions before I go.” 

Spying the beginnings of an impending pout, she wards it off by running a thumb over the curve of Lexa’s mouth. _God_ , she’s going to miss kissing those lips but she shakes off that upsetting thought for the time being.

“Don’t give me that petted lip. I need to bring something back for Lincoln as a thank you for looking after Bellamy. I can’t just give him some tat from the airport, can I?”

“He’d never know.”

“No, but I would,” is Clarke’s semi-stern reply. “Not to mention, I’ve been in Miami for days and l still haven’t been to the beach.”

“While I’d kill to see you in a swimsuit...” Lexa looks at the crutches sadly. “Sand and these don’t exactly mix.”

“Somewhere else, then.”

Lexa mulls it over for a moment. 

The lift marks its arrival with a ping. 

“Do you like street art?”

  
  


***

  
  


It comes as no surprise that Wynwood Walls is the most Instagrammed place in Miami. Throngs of local visitors and tourists alike flock to the open-air space and surrounding district, taking snaps and posing for selfies beside the huge murals. Close to twenty blocks worth of buildings act as a canvas for swathes of vibrant colour, abstract graffiti and highly stylised pop art, and an abundance of quirky shops, ice cream parlours, craft breweries, trendy bars and eateries add to the eclectic mix. Even the sidewalks and signposts are adorned with art. It’s astounding. Spectacular. And as they wander through the gardens, Clarke is in her element. 

“This is incredible,” she breathes out, gaping in wonder at a prowling monochromatic tiger that emerges from drips of running paint. She peers over her shoulder at Lexa. “Have you been here before?”

“A few times. Some of the murals change every so often as new artists get added. It’s pretty cool just to walk around and soak up the vibe.”

Clarke lines up the perfect shot of the tiger then clears out the way of a young family’s photo opportunity, exchanging a smile with the parents as their son and daughter crouch beside the mural, fashioning tiny hands into claws and roaring at the camera. The fact both children are missing a couple of milk teeth makes the scene all the cuter.

“And I suppose this is where you took all your previous girlfriends when you wanted to impress them?” Clarke asks as she saunters over to Lexa, mostly teasing but also curious to know. 

The embarrassed smile she gets in response is far too attractive for Clarke not to duck under the bill of Lexa’s baseball cap to claim with a kiss. She keeps it brief, mindful of the other people milling around the park, keen not to draw attention since Lexa’s gone incognito to play tour guide.

Lexa scoffs lightly once Clarke withdraws. “Uh, yeah, because the intensive training and crazy tournament schedule really left time for romance.”

She shrugs and looks at the ground.

“Titus had me believing it was my destiny to be single for as long as my tennis career lasted.”

“Ugh, he’s such a—” Clarke stops herself, remembering that they aren’t supposed to be letting that sanctimonious prick ruin their day. “So you really didn’t date at all?”

“I had someone once.”

“The girl you and Ontari fell out over?”

A shallow nod. “Costia.”

Lexa appears to draw herself up. 

“But that was five years ago. Ancient history.” A flicker passes over her lips. “My love life was non-existent until I met you. Kind of pathetic, huh?”

Clarke can sense there’s more to the story but, intrigued as she is, she won’t push if Lexa doesn’t want to be forthcoming with further details.

“No, it’s not pathetic.” She reaches up to twist the cap around so she can kiss Lexa again, unimpeded by the bill. “It makes me even luckier that you,” she lands another lingering peck, “are all mine.”

It might be overly sappy but it’s worth it for the smile that becomes embedded in Lexa’s cheeks, how her eyes gleam, growing impossibly more radiant. And Clarke is thoroughly enchanted by everything she sees, lifting both hands to cradle Lexa’s jaw and draw her face closer.

Lexa’s soft gaze moves over her slowly in kind. “Cornball.”

“You love it.”

“I love you.”

Happiness zings inside Clarke’s chest to hear it, a feeling that bursts behind her ribs in a shower of bright, glittering sparks. 

“I love you more.”

Lexa smile widens. “I love you most.”

“Well, I love you more than most.”

“I—“ Lexa pauses, frustrated for a retort. Then she frowns in consternation and Clarke just has to kiss her, still grinning in triumph as their lips bump together.

  
  


***

  
  


They spend an hour or so strolling past dozens of outdoor murals before taking refuge inside one of the museums to escape the heat. Clarke snaps a million photos of Lexa against assorted graffiti backdrops, the colours popping behind her, dwarfed by the larger than life designs. She steals a kiss after each photo, unable to keep her lips to herself, oblivious to onlookers as she and Lexa float along in their bubble of self-absorption.

But once they hit the gift shop, Lexa begins to show signs of strain, arms and shoulders clearly aching from using the crutches for a prolonged period. So after Clarke makes her souvenir purchases, she insists they stop somewhere to rest and recuperate, overruling Lexa’s mild protests.

They soon find a nearby cafe and snag the last outdoor table beneath the awnings. It’s a painfully cool spot, a magnet for hipsters with its reclaimed wooden benches, retro neon signage, and geometric paintwork on the exterior walls. The location and laid-back ambience makes it ideal for people watching, but Clarke can hardly take her eyes off Lexa. Stuck on Lexa’s lips and jawline, graceful hands and dainty wrists, tanned forearms exposed by the shirt sleeves rolled to her elbows. Even once the waitress brings their selection of small plates of street food, a colourful spread of bite-size soft shell tacos, empanadas, some kind of fragrant shredded beef and vegetable stew over rice, and a few other dishes Clarke couldn’t begin to guess, she still finds her attention drawn to Lexa.

“Do you ever feel like you’re not trendy enough to be somewhere?” Clarke asks, feeling conspicuous in her current lack of bougie chic.

“You’re asking the person rarely seen out of athletic gear?”

“This might be news to you but,” Clarke tucks one leg of her folded wayfarers into the v neck of her t-shirt. “I’m rather fond of you in spandex.”

They exchange a flirty look.

“What I meant was,” she continues, “we’re possibly the only two people here without a sleeve tattoo.”

“Mm. What do you think would happen if I rocked up to the All England club with some badass ink?”

“A furore. Sue Barker would be scandalised. Although...” Clarke bites her lip. “Now I’m picturing it, I could definitely see you in your tennis whites with a tasteful tribal design.” She reaches across the table and strokes down Lexa’s upper arm. “Right here. Or peeking out from under your skirt.”

Lexa smirks and captures Clarke’s hand, turning her palm over and rubbing a thumb back and forth over her knuckle. It unhelpfully serves to remind Clarke of that same thumb moving over another, more intimate part of her anatomy in a similar fashion and she has to press her thighs together.

“Actually, there aren’t any rules against tattoos. It’s not so unusual to see players with body art nowadays, way more so than when I started out.” Lexa gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve never really given it any thought.”

“Well, it’s so permanent. You’d have to be sure. Unless you want to end up like Cher, getting laser removal on your backside.”

Lexa looks aghast. “I would never get a tattoo on my ass.”

“Not even ‘property of Clarke Griffin’?”

“Only if you put my name on your breasts.”

Clarke pokes her tongue out the corner of her mouth. “Hm, maybe I’ll surprise you when I get back.”

For a few protracted seconds, Lexa stares. Like she can’t determine whether Clarke is joking. Then she purses her lips and narrows her eyes. “You’re messing with me.”

“Am I? We’ll see,” Clarke says airily. “Anyway,” she nods towards one of the plates. “What are these? Breadsticks?”

“Tequeños. Venezuelan breaded white cheese sticks, oven-baked or fried in oil. Here, try one with the green salsa.”

Lexa picks one up, dipping it liberally in the ramekin of sauce then holding it out for Clarke to sample. Her eyelids slide shut as she takes a bite, savouring the warm, spicy kick of the salsa, the crunchy, slightly sweet taste of the dough and the soft, gooey melted cheese within. She must make a noise of pure pleasure because when she opens her eyes again, Lexa is sporting a tiny grin.

“Good, right?”

“Scrumptious. Although, I’m afraid all this deep fried food is going to go straight to my hips.”

“You could always join me on my runs.”

“There’s more chance of a blizzard hitting Miami than me taking up jogging,” Clarke says, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “I’ll pass.”

“Alternatively,” Lexa licks her bottom lip and drops her voice by an octave, giving her best exaggerated smoulder. “I’ve heard sex is a very effective way of burning calories.”

Even though Lexa is obviously hamming it up, Clarke can’t deny the faux-intensity of that stare is affective.

Still, she feigns innocence.

“Oh, really?” 

“Mhm. It’s science.”

“I see.” She gestures at the dishes on the table. “And how much sex would we need to have to work off all of this?”

“I suspect _a lot_.”

“What is that in metric units of measurement?”

“I don’t know. I’m a tennis player not a mathematician, Clarke.”

She almost snorts then but manages to contain it. Taking a second to school her expression, she picks up her cutlery, scoops a forkful of beef stew onto it and brings it close to her lips.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Eat up.” She fixes Lexa with a sultry look of her own. Cocks an eyebrow. “We have a hypothesis to prove.”

  
  


***

  
  


The ride to South Beach feels like a test of endurance. They keep sneaking glances at each other while the amiably chatty driver, Diego, tries to engage them in a broad variety of topics; everything from the gentrification of Wynwood to the traffic on the 195 to his holiday in London once he picks up on Clarke’s accent. She can’t fault him for working extra hard for a tip, but she’s too preoccupied with Lexa and the gradually diminishing half inch of space between their hands to manage much more than an occasional hum or polite smile.

It’s not that she’s deliberately being uncommunicative. It’s just that the entirety of Clarke’s focus is concentrated on the brush of Lexa’s pinkie against her own. By the time they’re halfway across MacArthur Causeway—and Diego has hardy taken a breath during his lengthy anecdote about visiting Jungle Island with his kids—Lexa’s little finger is fully hooked around Clarke’s. The simple touch makes her tingle, causes her heart to swell and her stomach to flip over, and she couldn’t be more impatient to get Lexa alone.

Typically, the universe conspires against them. 

What should be a twenty-five minute journey stretches to forty, thanks to congestion, and when they finally arrive at the condo, they have to share the lift with a couple of mahogany-hued pensioners. All Clarke wants to do is pin Lexa against the wall and kiss her soundly; find an outlet for the tension that’s been building since they polished off lunch and Lexa asked with a quirked eyebrow, “So, should I call an Uber or...?”

But there’s a sweet kind of agony in being forced to wait. The expectation, the unspoken inevitability of what’s to come is a palpable thing. And when their eyes catch across the small space, when Clarke reads the intention in Lexa’s heavy gaze, it makes a hot flush spread through her chest. Because with Lexa _staring_ at her like this, she can’t prevent her thoughts from leaping ahead. In her mind, she’s already sliding her tongue into Lexa’s mouth and her hand into Lexa’s underwear and...

She has to break eye contact at last. Call on every last ounce of restraint to refrain from pouncing on Lexa and giving their fellow occupants of the lift a coronary into the bargain. 

When Clarke dares to look in Lexa’s direction again, she doesn’t miss the wry glint in Lexa’s eyes, the faintest upturn of her lips. It’s all too much of a provocation when Clarke is currently powerless to do anything about it but, later? Oh, she _will_ exact retribution.

Blessedly, it’s only another few moments before the lift reaches its destination and she breathes an internal sigh of relief as the doors part. She hitches the straps of her tote bag higher and marches out without a sideways glance, shoulders squared and head held high, confident that Lexa will follow hot on her heels.

She makes a beeline for the apartment at the far end of the corridor while the brisk click of crutch tips hitting the floor resounds close behind her.

Once they arrive outside Lexa’s door, Clarke digs around in her bag for the keys, intensely aware of Lexa’s proximity, the warmth radiating from her body. It makes Clarke clumsy, fumbling as she inserts the key, and the low chuckle beside her ear only further hinders her coordination.

“I’m having flashbacks to the first time you took me back to your flat,” Lexa says, breath disturbing Clarke’s hair and sending a slow tingle down her spine. “Locks proved equally challenging to you then.”

“Perhaps if you had a less cavalier attitude to personal space, I might have more success, smartarse.”

She can almost hear, _feel_ Lexa’s sly smirk. “Calling me semi-insulting names in that accent of yours isn’t exactly a deterrent. In fact...” 

Lips brush against the shell of Clarke’s ear and she shudders slightly, unable to stop the quiet gasp that slips out. 

Lexa barely moves her mouth away as she whispers, “It turns me on. _You_ turn me on.” An exhale. “Jesus. You’re so fucking hot, Clarke. I lose my damn mind whenever I’m under you, inside you.”

Lexa’s charged words raise goosebumps all over Clarke’s body. For a second, she tips her forehead against the cool surface of the door and screws her eyes shut, a futile attempt to compose herself before she speaks. 

“Well, the sooner you let me get this door open, the sooner we can make that a reality.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once Lexa shuffles backwards, Clarke recovers enough of her wits and dexterity to work the bloody lock this time. Then when they’re safely inside and the door swings shut behind them, she whirls around. Seizes Lexa by the cheeks and crashes their lips together. It’s frenzied; demanding. Fuelled by pent-up arousal and the urgent need to possess Lexa’s mouth, because Clarke is leaving tomorrow and she wants Lexa to remember every torrid second.

Before long Clarke strays, nipping at Lexa’s jaw while her fingers are busy with the fiddly little pearl buttons on Lexa’s shirt. She gets it half undone before she grows impatient and yanks the rest free. A couple of buttons fly off, unseen, but Clarke is much too eager to get her hands on Lexa’s abs to show any contrition for it.

Clarke’s hands glide over taut muscle, roaming upwards as her lips descend, open mouth working against the smooth column of Lexa’s throat, feeling the fast flutter of Lexa’s pulse, tasting salt and the faint traces of perfume on her skin. 

“Clarke.”

She only hums distractedly while her wandering hands move over Lexa’s bra to palm at her tits, glorying in the quiet hitch of Lexa’s breath.

“Clarke, wait,” Lexa tries again. “Can we—fuck.” She groans. Ducks her head to catch Clarke’s mouth again, seemingly incapable of going more than a minute or two without kissing. “Hnng, hold on. I need to get off the crutches.”

In the thick fog of lust, Clarke had forgotten about the discomfort Lexa exhibited earlier and she draws back a bit, instantly chagrined by her own lack of consideration. “Shit, sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Hey, no, it’s okay.” Lexa brushes their lips together, reassuring, then lets out a sigh. “It’s just frustrating, you know? These stupid things get in the way of everything. Like this afternoon at the Walls, when we were walking around, I was itching to touch you.”

“Oh? In public?” Clarke queries in a sly undertone. “How risqué.”

“I didn’t mean…” Lexa shakes her head minutely, her ears turning pink. “Actually, never mind. You’ll only make fun of me anyway.”

“I won’t, I won’t. Please, tell me.” 

Clarke drops a kiss on Lexa’s nose, chin, the slight jut of that lower lip before Lexa pulls it back in. Cajoles with gentle words and gentler caresses until Lexa surrenders with another, quieter sigh.

“I just… This is going to sound so lame, but I wanted to hold your hand, Clarke,” she says. “Wrap my arm around your shoulders. Regular coupley things that people do. And it bothered me that I physically couldn’t.”

Now mockery is the furthest thing from Clarke’s mind. Because for all the understated swagger Lexa outwardly presents, beneath the patina of confidence she really is the biggest pile of mush.

Clarke brings one hand to Lexa’s cheek, the other shifting up and slightly to the left to feel the fast knock of Lexa’s heartbeat under her palm. She appraises Lexa slowly, absorbing every detail and locking it into her memory.

“You try to hide it but you, Lexa Woods, have the sweetest, softest heart,” Clarke whispers, “I love that about you. Don’t ever let anyone tell you it isn’t your greatest strength.”

Lexa’s lips pull up into a sloping smile. “All this time I thought it was my baseline forehand.”

“Which is also pretty exceptional.”

“So are you.” 

“And you’re cute. Very cute.”

“I’m glad you think so, but,” the smile is displaced by a small grimace, “could we continue this horizontally?”

“Bed?”

Lexa nods “please” before she angles in for another kiss, like she needs one more taste to sustain herself for navigating the short distance to the bedroom.

They pick up where they left off once Lexa is comfortably seated on the edge of the mattress. Undressing in a hurry. Shirts and trainers and shorts hastily thrown in a heap; underwear peeled away. Each pausing to admire the other before Clarke climbs onto the bed to straddle Lexa’s lap, cautious as she plants her knees on either side of Lexa’s thighs. She grasps Lexa’s face and bends into the hot slant of their mouths. And now that she’s able to touch freely, Lexa gathers Clarke up in her arms, holding her so tight and close that Clarke feels every breath in the push of Lexa’s chest against her ribs.

She kisses and kisses and kisses Lexa. Can’t get her fill of the softness of Lexa’s lips; the heat of Lexa’s mouth; the gentle, thrilling hunger of it all. A swell of emotion, huge and unstoppable, rushes over Clarke, squeezes around her heart, and she surrenders to the feeling.

She’s in love.

So giddily, deliriously in love that she has to tamp down on a giggle that rises up. Perhaps the mania is contagious because when Lexa sinks back against the covers, carrying Clarke with her, she releases a small burst of wheezy laughter into their kiss.

It morphs into a different kind of breathlessness when Clarke rocks her pelvis against Lexa’s muscled stomach. 

Lexa moans and clutches harder at Clarke. Takes hold of her hips and urges her on, speeding the momentum until Clarke is gasping and shaking as she grinds to a fast and dirty climax. 

Before she even has a chance to recover she’s being rolled over, Lexa’s upper body pinning her against the rumpled sheets, a hand sliding between her legs. Lexa swallows Clarke’s broken whimper, licks into her mouth as she coats her fingers with Clarke’s wetness. 

Despite the fact she’s still quivering from the orgasm she had less than thirty seconds ago, Clarke tilts her hips up, seeking contact and friction and _more_. She wants Lexa, craves her beyond reason, cannot satiate this desire, and she doesn’t care if it feeds Lexa’s ego. She already feels Lexa smirking into the kiss, so ruddy pleased with herself that she’s reduced Clarke to this desperately needy mess. 

The fingertips poised at her entrance twitch and Clarke strains forward with a low growl.

Her girlfriend has the audacity to chuckle, retreating an inch to peer down at Clarke’s face. 

“Lexa,” she warns.

“Shhh.”

A kiss is laid on the dimple of Clarke’s chin. Another on the freckle above her lip. This close, in this light, Lexa’s eyes are the lushest, most beautiful green and Clarke almost forgets the reason for her exasperation.

“Relax, Clarke. The first one was just for the empanadas.”

Lexa gives a wicked little smile as her middle finger finally slides home, and Clarke shivers and squeezes around it, a relieved, grateful sigh escaping her lips.

“We still have at least another thousand calories to burn.”

  
  


***

  
  


After spending the better part of the day wrapped around each other—sleeping late to make up for the hours lost during the night, sharing a platter of whatever Clarke could forage from the fridge and carry back to bed, losing themselves again in searching kisses and confident touches and the slow grind of hips—the airport goodbyes are just as wrenching as she expected.

She has to continuously remind herself that it’s only for a month, six weeks at most. Hardly the end of the world. But every time she steals a glance at Lexa’s profile, it feels as though there’s a ten tonne weight crushing down on her chest.

As they loiter near the security gate, eking out the last few moments before Clarke needs to join the queue, they give each other damp-eyed assurances about Skype and phone calls and texts. Clarke clings tightly to Lexa’s midsection while they share soft kisses and heartfelt, whispered “I love you”s and, loath as Clarke is to let go, she’s aware their time is severely limited. The departures board already shows the gate number and she still needs to clear security and hoof it across the terminal if she’s going to make this flight.

She plants one last fond kiss on Lexa’s lips before she steps back, reluctantly putting some space between them. It feels like the Grand Canyon.

(Apparently, Lexa isn’t the only dramatic one in their relationship.)

“I’d better go,” Clarke says, lifting her thumb to wipe a smudge of lip gloss away from the corner of Lexa’s mouth. “I’ll call you when I land, hm?”

Lexa nods solemnly, silently, and Clarke wants to kiss her again. Never wants to stop. Knows that the sad, resigned look in Lexa’s eyes is going to haunt her for as long as they’re apart. And so she has to gird herself, put on a brave face, even though her heart is splintering in two.

She pops the retractable handle of her carry-on luggage and glances over her shoulder to send Anya a small wave.

“Later, Tits!” comes the reply, bellowed across the concourse, earning a fair number of startled stares from random passersby.

Clarke shakes her head and shares a withering look with Lexa. Softens her expression and mouths, “Bye, Lex.”

The slight tremble of Lexa’s chin, the thick layer of emotion that clogs her voice when she offers her own parting words is almost too much to handle when Clarke is already near breaking point.

It takes a monumental effort to force one foot in front of the other, to resist the powerful urge to look back. 

Somehow, she keeps her emotions at bay all through the security checks and the subsequent dash to the gate; successfully holds it together while she waits for boarding to commence, taking an empty seat in the row of hard metal chairs that overlook the runway.

She fiddles with her phone, checks her email, before long giving in to the lure of social media. Anything to banish the memory of Lexa’s downcast eyes, however temporarily.

But when Clarke opens Instagram, the last thing she expects to see at the top of the feed is a picture of herself—one that Lexa took completely unbeknownst to her—posted fifteen minutes ago, according to the timestamp. In it, Clarke is leaning on the balcony railing, bundled up in Lexa’s funnel neck hoodie and gazing off into the middle distance, silhouetted by the setting sun. 

The caption below simply reads: _Miss this one already_.

It’s what tips her over into making an utter twit of herself in public as she claps a hand over her mouth to muffle a choked sob. 

It’s loud enough to cause the silver-haired woman in the next seat over to look up from her paperback novel and ask, “Are you okay, honey?”

Clarke sniffles. Ducks her head; embarrassed. “Oh, yes. Yes. I’m fine, thank you.” She hastily wipes her cheeks and flashes a watery smile. “My girlfriend is an enormous sap, that’s all. Sorry for interrupting your book.”

“It’s garbage, anyway. Fifty Shades of emotional abuse, if you ask me.” The woman earmarks the page and tucks the paperback away. She retrieves a pack of tissues from her handbag and offers one to Clarke. “Dry your eyes.”

Thanking the woman once again, Clarke dabs at her face then discreetly blows her nose before pocketing the soggy tissue.

“Sounds like a keeper, this girl of yours.”

“She is.” Clarke nods. “She’s wonderful.”

“You know,” the woman leans in to confide, “my eldest grandson is gay. He lives in Fort Lauderdale with his husband. I went to the Pride parade with them this year.”

Clarke almost feels like crying again, because bless this woman’s heart. Instead, she teases, “Grandson? But you don’t look a day over twenty-five.”

A scoff. “Oh, hush.” 

They both chuckle and the heaviness in Clarke’s heart lifts a tiny bit.

Her gaze returns to the phone, to that photo.

It’s racked up hundreds of comments already, ranging from fevered speculation (“omg, who is she???” and “is that ur gf?”) to a plethora of assorted, enthusiastic emojis.

She doesn’t hesitate to tap the like icon, to then share the post to WhatsApp.

A text arrives within seconds.

_L: Too much?_

Over the tannoy, the airline representative asks First and Business Class passengers and those with young children to come forward. Fortunately for Clarke, Lexa insisted on getting her an upgrade for the return flight home, which she’d put up only polite, perfunctory resistance to (she isn’t so daft as to look a gift horse in the mouth).

Gathering her things, Clarke quickly taps out a reply with one thumb—a message that consists entirely of red heart emojis—before she has to dig out her passport and boarding pass for inspection.

Once she gets organised and settled in her seat on the plane, she checks her phone one final time, about to switch it off to conserve the battery, when she finds an image notification from WhatsApp waiting on the lock screen.

She opens it and her heart spasms. 

It’s a close up of Lexa doing her best approximation of the kissy face emoji, looking so gorgeous and ridiculous and perfect that Clarke has to fight the impulse to kiss the screen.

 _I thought it was just the drugs before but you really are incapable of winking without shutting both eyes_ , she sends back.

 _L: Gee, thanks. Not really the reaction I was shooting for_. 

The cabin crew are making their way down the aisle closing the overhead lockers and Clarke knows the announcement to put electrical devices into airplane mode is imminent.

 _How’s this? I love you and all your little foibles_. _And I’ll tell you about it in great detail in about ten hours, if you’re still awake_.

_L: Hmm, better._  
_L: But you’re not in the clear yet… darling._

She should’ve known Lexa, the brat, was biding her time on the “darling” slip-up.

Well, fine. If they’re going to fight dirty, Clarke’s got a little something up her own sleeve.

_Don’t bite off more than you can chew… baby._

  
  


***

  
  


The comfier seats and extra leg room in Business Class allow her to grab a few hours of intermittent sleep between the in-flight movies, and while she doesn’t arrive at Heathrow feeling rested, the journey proves much less unpleasant than it could’ve been had she slummed it in Economy with the plebs.

Once the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign goes off, she powers her phone on and impatiently waits for it to detect the network. As soon as it connects to 4G, there’s a flurry of incoming texts from Lexa, Lincoln, even one from Dad: _Mum asks if you’d like to come for Sunday lunch next weekend? Lettuce know._

She groans quietly at his enduring love of naff food-related puns and texts back, _will there be gravy and roast potatoes and all the trimmings? If so, yes._

To Lincoln’s text— _When does your flight get in? Do you need me to give Beelzebub his breakfast?—_ she replies, _Just got into Heathrow. I’ll be home to feed Bell, thanks_.

She leaves Lexa’s message for last. The ‘ _???_ ’ makes her chuckle quietly to herself, because Lexa obviously has no recollection and that gives Clarke the upper hand.

The phone rings for a bit before Lexa answers with a soft, mumbled, “Clarke?”

She smiles, small and unbidden, chin tucked into her chest. “Hi. Did I wake you?”

“Mmn, only from a nap.” 

Clarke’s heart twists, wanting nothing more than to be back in Lexa’s bed and quietly dreading the hour-long trek across West London on the tube ahead of her.

“So… ‘baby’?”

“That’s what you called me when I showed up with Anya.”

Lexa makes a pitiful sound, akin to a whine. “Isn’t it unfair to taunt me for something I said when I was on powerful painkillers?”

“Possibly, but it’s entertaining.” Clarke relents, adding, “It was actually very sweet. I wouldn’t mind if you did it again.”

It grows nosier in the cabin as the people in the seats around her get up to open the luggage compartments and pull out their belongings. She covers one ear with her hand to block out the commotion, to catch the tail end of Lexa’s soft sigh.

“I don’t know. I’d be self-conscious.”

Clarke lowers her voice. “I’m sure I can make you less shy with a little positive reinforcement. We can find out later on Skype.”

The line goes quiet and Clarke can picture Lexa’s hard gulp before she says, “Okay.”

“But, for now, go back to sleep.”

“Not until you text me that you’re home.”

“Lex.”

“I won’t be able to rest unless I know you’re safe. The subway’s full of weirdos and creeps.”

Well, not so much at 7am. She’s more likely to run afoul of self-centred, obnoxious City types that don’t have enough awareness of where they’re sticking their elbows, but Clarke decides to humour her. “Alright, I will.”

And so she spends the duration of the tube journey with her eyes glued to her phone, texting back and forth with Lexa. So caught up in it that she has to scramble with her luggage to get off at Piccadilly to switch to the District line. 

The physical and emotional fatigue finally catches up with her as she trudges up the stairwell to her flat. She manages to heave her cases up the last few steps and it’s only the appealing thought of collapsing into soft sheets that gives her the required boost of energy to make it over the threshold.

“Bell,” she calls out, when she doesn’t immediately spot the cat on any of his usual perches or snoozing places. “Bellamy? Mummy’s home.”

She dumps her stuff by the door and checks the bathroom, then under the bed, and that’s where she finds him, ears flattened, hackles up. 

“There you are. Why are you hiding, silly?”

She puts out her hand to coax him forward but he bares his teeth with a hiss and hunkers down further, a ball of angry floof.

“Bellamy!” she exclaims, appalled. 

He answers with a low, rumbling growl.

“Now, now. I’ll have none of that attitude, mister.”

He continues to stare at her. Waiting to see what she’s going to do next.

With an exasperated huff, Clarke gets up off the floor and goes to the kitchen to fill his food bowl with dry biscuits. When that fails to entice him out, she dangles his favourite feathered toy over the side of the bed. Stubbornly, he remains where he is, not moving an inch except for the slow, agitated whip of his tail.

It’s as if he somehow telepathically knows of her future plans and is punishing her for it.

Clarke despairs, “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry. You’ve every right to be upset with me.”

She drops the toy and flops onto her back. Stares at the wall for a few seconds, at the stripes cast by the sunlight pouring through the blinds. Then she reaches into the pocket of her jeans to pluck out her phone.

 _Home at last,_ she texts Lexa. _I’m in_ _Bellamy’s bad books. He’s giving me major stink-eye._

_L: Isn’t that his natural state?_

When Clarke only replies with an unhappy emoji, her phone starts ringing almost instantly.

“He’ll come around,” are Lexa’s first words to her. “Give him some time. In a couple of hours, it’ll be like you were never gone.”

“You underestimate his ability to hold a grudge. Or are you forgetting that he vomited in your shoe?”

“Oh, so you admit it was a malicious act of war.”

“I’m saying no such thing.”

“Uh-huh.”

In the lull that follows, Clarke strains to listen for the sound of Lexa’s breathing over the early morning hustle of the city outside her window. 

“I miss you already too, you know,” she says, a soft confession, tiredness leaving her unguarded and prone to succumbing to sentimentality. “I’ll bet you broke a few thousand hearts with your Insta update.”

“So, about that… Indra fielded some media enquiries.”

Clarke squints at the ceiling. “From whom?”

“Buzzfeed. Huff Post. A couple dozen others. I guess it went viral.”

“Lexa! How can you be so blasé?”

Despite being in the grip of slight panic, Lexa’s small laugh causes a warm stir low in Clarke’s stomach.

“She didn’t confirm or deny anything. Although, let’s just say she wasn’t too happy when her phone blew up while she was out at dinner. Apparently, next time I have to forewarn her before I break the tennis corner of the Internet,” Lexa says dryly. “Last time I checked, the Instagram post had over a hundred forty-five thousand likes. And I was trending for, like, two hours on Twitter.”

Stunned into silence, Clarke hardly knows what to think, much less say.

“How does it feel to be an internet sensation?” Teasing. But when Clarke only lets out a flabbergasted breath, Lexa asks more seriously, “Are you freaking out?”

“No. Well, perhaps a smidgen.” Clarke blinks and shakes her head, still dazed. “I’m mainly trying to wrap my brain around how much and how bloody quickly it escalated. Dare I ask what the consensus was on Twitter?”

“From what I saw, hashtag ‘relationship goals’ and people debating which one of us is more dominant in bed.”

“As if it’s possible to tell from a single photograph,” Clarke scoffs. ”Of course, as we know, I tend to be the aggressor.”

“Me taking you on your kitchen table says otherwise.”

Her gaze drifts to the table and she’s helpless to combat the reflexive twitch of her limbs, as though her body is reliving the muscle memory of Lexa driving into her.

“Not really, because I _let_ it happen.”

“Please. That is such bullshit.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Lex,” she says archly but she can’t keep the smile out of her voice.

“Well, we’ll soon see, won’t we? When I’ve got you on your back and I’m in three fingers deep.”

It isn’t only the content of Lexa’s words that takes Clarke’s breath away, has her edging a hand below the waistband of her leggings, but the supreme confidence with which Lexa delivers them. 

So when Bellamy chooses that precise moment to jump onto the bed, startling Clarke so badly that she drops her phone, she could howl at the injustice of the feline interruptus. He chatters at her before turning in a half circle and sitting with his back to her in the classic ‘chicken dinner’ pose, making it abundantly clear that this doesn’t mean she’s been forgiven for abandoning him. 

“Clarke? Are you still there?” she hears faintly.

She retrieves her phone and sighs. “Sorry, it seems I’ve been cat-blocked.”

Lexa’s glum huff is far too endearing. “Have I told you that I resent your devil cat almost as much as I love you?”

“Sounds like you love me a lot,” Clarke says, purposefully ignoring the slight against Bell. She shimmies a little further into the pillows to get more comfortable. Imagines Lexa doing the same on the other side of the ocean and the thought warms her in the absence of Lexa’s embrace. 

“Enough to tolerate blue bean, apparently.”

“Right there with you,” Clarke says, intensely aware of the tight throb of unfulfilled arousal. “To be continued later?”

“It’s a date.”

  
  


***

  
  


Over the weekend, Clarke resists her friends’ attempts to lure her out for celebratory drinks with an excuse about jet lag. Which is true to an extent, but she’s more concerned with getting her ducks in a row for the move.

She contacts letting agencies about the flat, arranging several viewings for the following week. Emails Indra to check on the progress of the employer’s petition and when Indra replies on Saturday night with the confirmation receipt, Clarke goes straight on to the US Department of State website to complete the online form for a non-immigrant temporary work visa. She pays the application fee and schedules the interview at the US Consulate for the earliest available slot. 

With things set in motion, it starts to feel real, tangible in a way it didn’t quite before, and the knot of tension in her stomach slowly unravels, replaced by a jittery sort of anticipation whenever she thinks about the new life ahead of her, impatient for it to happen _now_ because her heart and her mind and everything she wants is in Miami.

It’s a waiting game and Clarke has never been good at biding her time.

The only comfort is that Lexa is suffering equally, moping and pouting and pretending it’s the way the US Open is currently unfolding that’s causing her agitation.

She sends a wall of texts while she hate-watches Ontari smash through the tournament, decimating Luna Waters in the third round and humiliating Harper McIntyre the next day in the fourth. She complains about Ontari’s attitude, the umpire calls, Nia’s biased commentary. Unleashes a whole tirade when she catches Nia on ESPN discussing Ontari’s prospects and the thorny subject of Lexa’s injury crops up.

Clarke’s in the pet food aisle at Tesco, comparing luxury brands, the kind that feature smug white Persian cats on the packaging, when the screed comes through. With Bell still giving her the cold shoulder, she’s resorted to bribery to win back his affection and if a ‘terrine of organic tender chicken morsels’ at £1.29 per foil tray doesn’t do the trick then nothing will.

_L: They asked Nia if she thinks I’ll bounce back from this._  
_L: Of course she was condescending as hell, the bitter old hag._  
_L: It’s jealousy._  
_L: She never won a Slam._  
_L: She was mediocre at best._  
_L: And she just hates the fact that another lesbian is on the rise._  
_L: She’s like the Canadian Margaret Court but without one iota of the talent. Fucking homophobe._

And, okay, she knows the fact that Lexa isn’t competing is contributing to the sulking but it’s too much to deal with on a Sunday evening when Clarke is feeling apprehensive about showing her face at work tomorrow.

So she loads her basket with a few varieties of posh cat food and rings Lexa while standing in the queue for the self-service checkout. 

“Lex, why are you putting yourself through this mental torture?”

She’s aware she sounds a bit harried but her patience has worn thin. Between her body adjusting to being five hours ahead and Bellamy’s antics keeping her awake—scratching at the bathroom door, yowling, knocking stuff over, and generally being a furry hooligan—she’s too fucking _tired_ to engage with Lexa’s grievances.

But she tries a slightly gentler tack when she prods, “What’s going on, hm? I suspect Nia’s thwarted ambition isn’t what’s really upsetting you.”

The queue shuffles forward.

Lexa’s sigh is a small, fragile expulsion. 

“I called Dr Primus’s office to schedule my surgery. She has an opening next Thursday.”

“Well, that’s good. Isn’t it?” Clarke frowns. “Or are you having second thoughts?”

“No. It’s just happening way sooner than I expected. I wish...” A heavier breath. “I just wish you were here for it, you know?”

The morose, plaintive note tugs at Clarke’s heart and she physically aches with the sudden urge to give Lexa a tight hug, to bury her nose in that fragrant spot where neck meets shoulder, which might very well be her favourite part of Lexa’s body—in hot contention with lips and eyes and legs and that wonderfully pert bottom.

“Oh, darling, me too. But look on the bright side.” She steps up to the checkout that’s just become free and hefts her basket onto the metal shelf. “You’ll already be off the crutches when I get back and, rest assured, I intend to take full advantage of your increased mobility.”

Lexa’s soft, surprised “oh” brings a smirk to Clarke’s lips, one that not even the admonishing “unexpected item in bagging area” automated message can dislodge.

  
  


***

  
  


Following the staff meeting, Clarke waits until everyone else has dispersed from the break room before she approaches Nyko. He’s at the small kitchen, pouring himself a refill from the kettle, and she coughs discreetly to make her presence known.

He looks up while dunking a tea bag in his mug. “Clarke. Want a brew?”

She shakes her head, no. Wrings her hands. “Nyko, do you have a spare minute to talk? In private?”

For a second his expression is unreadable but then he offers a wan smile. “Of course.”

She follows him through to his office, exchanging a swift glance with Lincoln as he leans against the reception desk talking to Fox, their chatter pausing as Clarke passes.

“Everything okay?” Nyko plonks into his seat, nods towards the vacant chair opposite the desk, and Clarke takes the cue to sit. “Family emergency sorted?”

“Oh. Yes,” she replies, too quickly. “Yes, thank you.”

She fidgets with the chunky watch on her wrist before she takes the plunge. 

“I’m not really sure how to broach this delicately but I’ve…” She pushes out a breath. “I’ve accepted a new job—and _I promise_ , I wasn’t actively seeking anything. I’ve enjoyed working with everyone here and you’re a fantastic boss and I—”

“Clarke,” Nyko intones, cutting her off. “I know.”

She stares at him, uncomprehending. 

Her lips part and her brow furrows. “You... know?”

“About all of it.”

In that moment her heart seizes, as she considers the possibility that someone—Linc?—betrayed her. But before she can level any wild accusations, Nyko continues, “Bit convenient that this mysterious, sudden ‘family crisis’ coincided with Lexa Woods’s injury, isn’t it? The same Lexa Woods who’s a former client of this practice and that you’ve not-so-secretly been dating for weeks without disclosing to me.”

Oh, fuck.

Fuckity fuck.

Her shoulders slump and she hangs her head. There’s no point in denying it, having been well and truly caught out. 

“Just as well you’re resigning because otherwise you’d leave me no choice but to sack you for gross misconduct.”

Her eyes leap back up to meet his. She gapes slightly, rendered speechless and unable to defend herself. What she’s done is indefensible anyway, having sullied her own reputation and that of the clinic with her behaviour. But it’s Nyko’s palpable disappointment that stings the most, that causes hot tears of shame to prick behind her eyes.

The dense, excruciating silence lengthens until Nyko slaps his palm against the edge of the desk and hoots, “Your face!”

In her startlement, Clarke leaps about two inches off the hard plastic seat. Her hand flies to her chest.

“What?” she splutters. “Are you…?”

“Had you going there.”

“Oh, you—!” She presses her lips into a thin line and folds her arms, supremely unimpressed. “You fucking git.”

“Hey, now. Weren’t you saying a minute ago that I’m the best boss in the world?” He chortles. “Also, a word of advice: don’t consider a future career in espionage. You’re crap at covering your tracks.”

She gives him a blank look.

“We’re friends on Facebook and you checked in at the airport in Miami, you daft mare.”

“Oh, God.” Cringing at her own stupidity, she exhales heavily and digs a hand through her hair, pushing it behind her ears. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you the truth.”

“Yes, you should have. But apology accepted,” he says, more magnanimously than she probably deserves. He leans back in his chair. “So how long before you swan off to America?”

“I’m hoping to have all the loose ends tied up by mid-October. Fingers crossed.”

“I’ll be sad to see you go. Whopping fibs aside,” he says wryly before growing sincere again, “you’ve been an asset to the clinic. If you ever decide you want to come back, there’s always a place for you here.”

Unexpectedly, she feels herself welling up again; his kindness is more than she could have hoped for, all things considered. 

“Thank you,” she says around the lump in her throat, offering a small, tight smile.

There’s a warmth in his eyes as he nods. “Right, well, back to work then. I’m still owed four weeks graft from you.”

“Yes, boss,” she drawls.

She’s halfway to the door when he calls out, “Clarke? One more thing. A hack journo contacted me for comment first thing this morning. Told him to sling his hook but, eh, you might want to see this…”

He swivels his laptop around to show her the screen. 

It’s an article from the Femail section of the Mail Online website and the all caps headline screams: ‘Could it be a love match? Injured tennis ace Lexa Woods shares intimate photo of British physio on Instagram!’

“You made the sidebar of shame. Congrats.”

Clarke scans the article, her disgust rising by the second at how many tennis-related puns the so-called journalist manages to cram into two hundred and fifty-odd words. But that isn’t what has her most bothered. As well as the Instagram snap, there’s a bunch of candid photos, clearly skimmed off her Facebook profile, and one headshot they’ve pilfered from the clinic’s Meet the Team webpage. It’s all so intrusive it makes her blood boil, not only towards her personally but her place of work.

(She makes a mental note to lock down her Facebook privacy settings ASAP, although the damage is already done.)

“Lincoln caught some scumbag photographer skulking around in the bushes earlier and sent him packing,” Nyko adds. 

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, chagrined. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea it would turn into a media circus.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure they’ll lose interest soon. In the meantime, probably best to use the side entrance.”

Mercifully, it does turn out to be a flash in the pan. 

The story quickly gets buried beneath a deluge of fresh tittle-tattle in the celebrity gossip news cycle. Even so, Clarke becomes a tad paranoid about paparazzi leaping out between cars or trailing her to and from her flat. Lincoln refuses to let her walk home alone until he’s convinced she’s not in imminent danger of being papped. And Lexa, Lexa is painfully, earnestly contrite about the whole thing, blaming herself for thoughtlessly exposing Clarke to the seedy underbelly of unexpected fame. She assures Lexa that she’s okay, that the worst part was everyone and their mum (including her own) sending her links to articles riddled with inaccuracies and quotes purported to be from “sources close to the gal pals”.

If there’s one blessing, it temporarily takes their minds off Lexa’s looming surgery. On the day Lexa is due to be admitted, Clarke phones her from work during a break between client appointments.

“Are you all set?”

“Yeah, Anya’s picking me up in an hour.”

“And she’s collecting you tomorrow?”

“Mhm. Clarke...” A weighted pause. “If there are any complications—”

“Lexa, don’t.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know and that’s what makes it even more preposterous. You’re going to be absolutely fine,” Clarke says firmly, doing her utmost to mask her own nerves about the procedure. 

Put in perspective, it’s hamstring surgery not a triple heart bypass, but it’s difficult to remain emotionally detached about someone cutting into her girlfriend, no matter how skilled they may be as a surgeon. 

“Whatever worst-case scenarios you’ve concocted in that head of yours, forget about them.” 

“It _is_ possible to have an adverse reaction to the spinal anaesthesia. It says so in the information pack.”

“Yes, but it’s uncommon, and I’m sure Dr Primus and her team have every eventuality covered and will take all the necessary precautions. Besides which, they’re keeping you in overnight for observation so there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Clarke, could you humour me? Please?” She can hear the pout in Lexa’s voice. “I’d feel a whole lot more relaxed going into this knowing that I told you how important you are to me.”

Mild exasperation gives way to a swell of pressure in Clarke’s chest. “Or you could tell me afterwards, once you’re out of surgery.”

“Can’t I do both?” 

Clarke sighs and purses her lips. She leans on her elbows at the standing desk, staring blindly ahead at the screensaver on the iMac, the clinic logo drifting across a black background. 

“If it’ll help ease your mind.”

The line goes silent for the span of a few seconds then Lexa pulls in a short breath. 

“If I don’t make it,” she begins so gravely that it takes some effort for Clarke not to roll her eyes at Lexa’s predisposition for melodrama, “I need you to know that being with you, Clarke, loving you and having you love me in return is worth a _thousand_ Grand Slams.”

As romantic ‘last’ declarations go, it’s as suitably overblown and extra as she’s come to expect from Lexa but, still, Clarke melts.

“Lex…” She clears her throat, ridding herself of some of the grit. “I love you so, so much and I’ll speak to you as soon as you wake up, alright? I’m not losing you today.”

“Okay.”

“More enthusiasm, please.”

“Yes, Doc,” Lexa says in a stronger voice. “Better?”

“Much.”

The next few hours crawl by, Clarke wading through it in a fugue state, mired in thoughts of Lexa out cold on the surgical table. Last night she’d done a bit of research to familiarise herself with the procedure, on the basis that demystifying what it entailed would soothe her nerves. Big mistake. Thanks to Google, she now has graphic images of the transverse gluteal crease incision seared in her retinas and she can’t help thinking about the long, thin silvery scar it’s going to leave below Lexa’s buttock. And if that wasn’t haunting enough, she watched a video of a partial re-fixation surgery, peering between her fingers as the surgeon peeled back the wall of the gluteus muscle to expose the tendon, debrided the surface of the ischial bone, and used two anchors to reattach the tendon before stitching the patient back up. It was simultaneously gruesome and fascinating and she couldn’t look away.

It’s on the commute home that she receives an update from Anya: _Out of surgery now_ , _all good_ , along with a snap taken from an unflattering angle of Lexa lying unconscious in a hospital bed, slack-jawed and drooling a bit, captioned, ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ It may be the most arresting sight Clarke has ever seen.

Later, when her ringtone goes off during dinner—which consists of scoffing a king rib from the chippie down the road while parked on the sofa in front of The One Show—she’s never lunged for her phone more quickly. 

Anya; calling via FaceTime.

Clarke mutes the telly and hastily flattens her hair before she answers.

“Tits,” Anya says in greeting. “Someone here wants to speak to you.”

She passes the phone over and Lexa’s lovely face comes into view in closeup. Her pupils are massive and she’s grinning widely and Clarke can only surmise that the postoperative morphine must be hitting the spot. 

“Clarke! Anya, it’s Clarke.”

“Yeah, I know, you galah.”

“She’s so pretty,” Lexa sighs wistfully, her speech a bit slurred. “Isn’t she pretty? When she comes back we’re going to have sex. Lots and lots and lots of sex.”

Clarke pushes through her embarrassment to tell Lexa, “I’m happy to see you too,” and listens to her prattle on for several minutes. Mostly nonsense until Lexa makes a stricken announcement that she’s not allowed to shower for five whole days. 

Clarke pokes her tongue into her cheek. 

“Maybe if you ask nicely, Anya will give you a bed bath,” she suggests.

“Rack off!” comes Anya’s loud interjection in the background. “Will I, fuck.”

Lexa pouts hard enough to raise a chuckle from Clarke.

“If I was there, I’d have no qualms about giving you a rub down, Lex.”

Lexa brightens in an instant, a smirk gracing her lips, but Anya relieves Lexa of the phone before she has the chance to say anything saucy in return.

Before Clarke goes, she asks Anya to have Dr Primus forward her the physical therapy plan and they reiterate their arrangements for Saturday. With Lexa out of commission, Anya had agreed to visit the rental properties Clarke narrowed down to a choice between two.

And so on Saturday evening she curls up on the sofa with a glass of wine, Bellamy tucked in at her bum, fastidiously grooming himself while Anya gives her a walkthrough of the first place on FaceTime, complete with sarcastic commentary about all the “primo banging” locations. Clarke rolls her eyes and tries to get Anya to focus on more practical things, like the plumbing and storage space and noise from the street.

When Anya walks up the uneven path to the second place, a single-storey two bedroom bungalow, its stucco walls painted chartreuse green, full of character even from the kerb, Clarke knows straight away it’s the one. The garden is a bit overgrown and neglected, in need of care and attention, but it’s nothing some weeding and cutting back the foliage won’t fix. Already, she’s envisaging some hanging plants and flower pots to spruce up the porch, a small bench beneath the shade of the palm tree. Perhaps Lexa might help once she’s able. Not that Clarke has much of a green thumb herself but she thinks she’d rather enjoy ogling Lexa in a tank top and booty shorts as she crouches over the flower beds wielding a trowel, a smudge of dirt on her cheekbone and sweat glistening on her shoulders. 

Inside, the house is just as charming; compact yet bright and open plan. At this time of day the front room is flooded with light and it’s easy to picture herself taking her morning coffee at the little breakfast nook in the kitchen. She has such a good feeling about this place and she’s suddenly anxious not to let it slip through her fingers.

“What do you reckon, then?” Anya asks once she’s completed the full tour. 

“Honestly? I’m in love with it.”

A scoff. “Can’t believe you’re seriously passing up a condo with all the mod-cons to live here. The yard’s probably full of spiders as big as your fist.”

“Doesn’t bother me.” Clarke shrugs. “One of my best friends, Wells, had a pet tarantula named James Spider while we were at uni. I used to look after it whenever he went home to see his dad. Anyway, I didn’t think Aussies were fazed by creepy-crawlies.”

“Pfft, I’m not. But you Poms wouldn’t know an arachnid if it bit you on the bum. Not until you’ve seen a huntsman crawl out behind a picture frame.”

That does give Clarke pause so she changes the subject before the nightmarish thought embeds itself too deeply in her subconscious. “And on that note, I’m going to phone Indra so someone else doesn’t swoop in and steal it from me.”

“Doubtful but knock yourself out, Tits.”

  
  


***

  
  


Everything proceeds at pace once the house is hers, secured by two months’ deposit. 

Meanwhile, the letting agency vets prospective tenants for her flat and she selects a young professional who is able to move in on the first day of November. In addition to the visa approval, it’s another weight off Clarke’s mind to know that the mortgage will be covered for the foreseeable future.

The last couple of weeks in London are a merry-go-round of leaving dos; separate shindigs with extended family, another with her colleagues, dinner and (too many) drinks with the core friend group, and a final big send-off at the local pub with all her mates in attendance, as well as a couple dozen friends of friends she only vaguely recognises through the haze of alcohol and half-remembered house parties. Lincoln’s tour de force of a farewell speech makes her laugh and cry and cringe and she hugs him extra tight afterwards.

“You’d better visit,” she warns, pointing a finger at him. “I have a spare room so you and O are welcome any time.”

He gives her a placid smile in return. “We’ll hold you to that, Griff.”

All that remains to be dealt with is Bellamy.

In her heart, she knows that she can’t in good conscience move him across the world, even though Lexa offered to cover the costs to make it happen. If he was cross with Clarke for gallivanting off to Miami for the better part of a week, she can only guess how angry he’d be about being put in the hold of an airplane for a ten hour flight to then find himself in a strange new country. While it’s gut-wrenching to even consider giving him away to someone else, it’s for the best. Or so she keeps telling herself. But every time she sees his grumpy little face, strokes his floofy belly and gets a bite or scratch for her efforts, she feels crippled by guilt. 

At least she’s satisfied that he’s going to a good home.

(At the pub, when Clarke mentioned the Bellamy conundrum, Octavia had simply shrugged, “We’ll take the wee shite off you.”

Not giving Lincoln any say in the matter. 

Eyes swivelling towards his fiancée, he’d said, “We will?” There were all sorts of objections in his gaze, but once he saw Clarke’s hopeful expression, he heaved a resigned sigh and nodded, “We will.”)

It’s a rigmarole shoving Bell into his cat carrier. The way he’s acting, it’s like she’s trying to murder him rather than transport him to his new home. He wails non-stop during the taxi journey. Each cry twists the knife deeper into Clarke’s heart and she purposely avoids meeting the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, lest he be silently judging her for perceived animal cruelty.

Lincoln comes down to meet her after she presses the buzzer for his flat, encumbered as she is with the carrier in one hand and a cardboard box containing Bellamy’s toys, cat food and chaise longue under her other arm.

“Thanks for doing this,” she says as Lincoln unloads the box from her. “It’s above and beyond.”

“Thank O. While you were away, they took a shine to each other,” he says, sounding mystified by this inexplicable turn of events as they climb the stairs. “Any time I got within two feet of her, I swear he got this, like... homicidal glint in his eyes.”

“Have you been talking to Lexa, by any chance?” Off his confused look, she shakes her head. “Never mind. But you might want to shut him in another room whenever you plan on getting amorous.”

Lincoln makes a face. “Already learned that lesson the hard way. Once made the mistake of leaning over to give O a kiss while we were watching a film and he was on her lap. You can still see the gouges on my thigh.”

Clarke lifts the carrier to peer inside. “Bellamy!” she admonishes. “That’s no way to treat Uncle Linc.”

He meows, unrepentant; all attitude.

  
  


***

  
  


The least painful course of action, Clarke decides, is not to linger. Prolonging the inevitable will only make it harder to say goodbye. She briskly runs through a list of instructions with Lincoln and Octavia: Bellamy’s feeding schedule, preferred toys and grooming techniques; wisdom she’s imparted on previous occasions of cat-sitting but she doesn’t want to overlook a single detail to ensure a smoother transition for him.

The finality and permanence of the situation hangs in the air, makes Clarke feel faintly sick, and the fact Bellamy hasn’t budged from the open cat carrier, regarding her with a look of betrayal mixed with contempt, doesn’t assuage her guilt.

She kneels on the floor to bring herself closer to eye level with him. Behind her, Lincoln and Octavia step discreetly out of the living room and close the door over. 

“Bell,” she coaxes. “My handsome little rebel prince. I’m going to miss you very, very much but you’ll see, you’ll be happy here. You’d hate Miami. It’s hot and humid and it would make your fur all frizzy.”

He continues to glare.

Clarke sighs and rubs her temple.

“Just because I’m not taking you with me, it doesn’t mean I love you any less. I hope someday you’ll realise that and forgive me.”

Bellamy merely turns his head away; a stinging dismissal.

It’s with a heavy heart that she takes her leave, exchanging hugs with Lincoln and Octavia and promises to keep in touch. On the pavement, she glances up to the third floor window to see Octavia holding Bellamy in her arms, forcing him to wave his paw at Clarke.

Vision swimming with unshed tears, Clarke lifts her hand to wave back.

She doesn’t crumble. 

Not until later, when she’s vacuuming the flat for the last time and discovers an abandoned toy between the sofa cushions. 

Clutching the fluffy white mouse to her chest, she slumps onto the sofa and cries.

  
  


***

  
  


Clarke is oddly apprehensive as she makes her way through the Arrivals terminal but as soon as she spots Lexa and their eyes lock across the concourse, the nerves just fall away. Losing all pretence of playing it cool, Clarke hurries her step and all but throws herself into Lexa’s waiting embrace. Hands roam over Clarke’s back and up her sides, into her hair, and Lexa guides her into a kiss that makes her toes curl inside her trainers.

“Welcome back,” Lexa whispers, kisses her again, and it’s the most thrilling feeling to have Lexa solid and warm in her arms once more.

Clarke squeezes Lexa’s ribs and steps back to take in the measure of her: the sun-bleached loose waves of her hair; aviators tucked into a muscle shirt with a bandeau underneath; those tight, tight Nike shorts that show off long golden brown legs, the tan deeper than she remembered.

Clarke is aware of her complete lack of subtlety but she doesn’t care, and Lexa’s cocky little smile, the confident upwards tilt of her chin as she gazes down her nose at Clarke only adds to the attraction.

“So, your place or mine?” Lexa asks with the faintest twitch of an eyebrow.

“Considering my house is unfurnished and doesn’t have a bed yet, definitely yours.”

“Keen to get me into the sack, huh?”

Clarke tugs at the hem of Lexa’s shirt. “You were the one who promised me, and I quote, ‘lots and lots of sex.’ But if you don’t have the stamina to keep up…”

Lexa leans perceptibly closer and Clarke is captivated by the luminosity of those green eyes. “I think you know that I do.”

“Let’s not dilly-dally, then.”

Wearing a toothy smile, Lexa grabs the handle of Clarke’s enormous suitcase. “I’m parked in the short stay lot.”

“You drove?”

“Mhm. Dr Primus gave me the all-clear earlier this week.”

An image of Lexa cruising around Miami in a sleek Range Rover and Ray-Bans pops into Clarke’s head, so when Lexa leads her to, well, the polar opposite of what Clarke had in mind, she’s slightly disappointed.

It’s a Subaru.

And not even a zippy jeep one.

It’s a full-on suburban soccer mom SUV. 

Lexa sees Clarke’s expression and grows defensive. “What? It has an excellent safety record and great fuel economy.” She shrugs. “I wouldn’t endorse something I wouldn’t use myself.”

“You’re desperately uncool, you know that? Come here.”

She ignores Lexa’s pout and backs her against the passenger side door, hands finding Lexa’s hips to keep her pinned there while they spend a good portion of the next five minutes snogging. Every soft, eager noise and catch of breath from Lexa breathes new energy into Clarke’s tired body and when they finally pull apart, it’s near impossible to look away from Lexa’s soft, swollen mouth.

“Take me home,” Clarke murmurs, voice gone conspicuously scratchy. “Before I drag you into the back seat of your tragically gay Subaru.”

Lexa laughs and pops the boot open. Waving off any protests, she lifts the suitcase into the back and peeks around the corner at Clarke.

“Admit it, at least it’s roomy.”

Clarke tosses a sultry look over her shoulder before she slips into the vehicle. “That remains to be seen.”

  
  


***

  
  


They barely make it out of Lexa’s designated parking space. Once Lexa brings the Subaru to a stop, she unclips her seatbelt and reaches across the centre console for Clarke’s. Wastes no time in pulling Clarke’s lips to her own, like she can’t abide waiting the few minutes it would take for them to ride the lift.

“Lex,” Clarke sighs between kisses, when Lexa disengages briefly only to swoop in at a different angle.

It’s gratifying how little composure Lexa has around her but Clarke doesn’t want a rushed, fumbling shag in Lexa’s lesbian stereotype car, even though she _is_ half contemplating climbing into Lexa’s lap, charges of public exhibitionism be damned. What she wants is to have Lexa’s lean body on top of her, to feel every inch of bare skin against her own. It’s all she’s been able to think about since she boarded her flight this morning and now it’s so tantalisingly close.

So she pushes gently at Lexa’s shoulders to break the kiss. Has to take a second to admire the lovely

flush on Lexa’s cheeks, the deep dark of her pupils, the way Lexa swallows while her eyes remain fixed on Clarke’s mouth.

“Much as I want to test out the spaciousness of this car, I’d really love to freshen up.” Clarke bites her lip and lets her gaze linger over Lexa’s collarbones, her neck, the sculpted slope of her jaw. “Maybe you could join me in that fancy twin shower of yours.”

That gets Lexa’s attention. Her eyes snap up to meet Clarke’s and the heat of her stare sends a sharp jolt through Clarke. 

Those dark, dark eyes never leave her from the moment they both step into the lift until they cross the threshold of Lexa’s place. The luggage is abandoned by the door as Lexa crowds Clarke against, first, the kitchen island, then the nearest wall, and finally against the bathroom door. Their kisses are electric. Arousal buzzes under Clarke’s skin, and she can’t get out of these clothes soon enough. 

Lexa pulls Clarke’s shirt off, briefly traps her wrists above her head to lavish kisses down her neck and over the tops of her breasts. The straps of Clarke’s bra are peeled down her arms while Lexa sucks at her throat and nudges a thigh between Clarke’s legs. And Clarke instinctively rocks her hips down to meet the tensed muscle as she slides her fingers into Lexa’s hair. 

With the bra gone, flung somewhere to the side, Lexa is quick to fill her hands with Clarke’s breasts. She groans into Clarke’s neck, “Fuck, I missed you.” 

Whether Lexa is talking to Clarke or directly to her tits, she isn’t certain but she rolls with it, beyond ecstatic to have Lexa touching her again, to feel calloused thumbs circle her nipples.

Lexa nuzzles Clarke’s throat, breathing her in. “You smell amazing.”

“Coming off a ten hour flight? I think you’re biased. My present musk could knock out a five hundred pound mutant gorilla.”

“That’s weirdly specific but I disagree.” 

Lexa’s mouth moves lower, parted lips skating over Clarke’s pulse point and down to her collarbones, bending to scatter kisses over her sternum and the swell of her right breast.

Until Lexa halts abruptly and pulls in a soft gasp. “You didn’t.”

It takes Clarke a second to collect herself enough to look down and see what has Lexa so shocked. 

Oh, yes. 

_That_.

Lexa’s name inked on the side of her boob in blue cursive script.

Wide eyes dart from Clarke’s bosom to her face and back again.

“Didn’t think I’d follow through?”

“No! Clarke, I can’t believe you—” 

Lexa stops herself and peers closer. She rubs a finger experimentally over the ink, frowning at the smudge it makes. Then, when it dawns on her that she’s being pranked, she huffs and rolls her eyes magnificently. 

“Lex, you gorgeous loon,” Clarke laughs, “as if I’d actually do that.”

She draws Lexa back to her lips, coaxing her out of a sulk with a series of kisses, each one longer, fuller, dirtier than the last until Lexa is moving, surging into Clarke’s body, the pressure of a strong thigh meeting Clarke exactly where she needs friction. She rides it slowly, shamelessly, clinging to Lexa’s shoulder with one hand, the other still wrapped in the thick mane of Lexa’s hair for leverage as they screw against the door.

That’s how Clarke comes only a few fraught minutes later. Gasp muffled by Lexa’s mouth. Shaking through the aftermath, heart knocking hard against her ribs.

They don’t make it to the shower.

They don’t make it to the training facility the next day or the one after, not until Lexa gets a barrage of angry texts and voicemails from Titus. When Lexa finally shows up at the pool at noon for an aquatic walking therapy session, hickeys all over her collarbones, Anya nearly launches a floatation aid at her head.

Titus is apoplectic.

Clarke catches snippets of the blazing row from the raised voices that carry to this side of the pool, echoing off the tiled walls.

“Your feelings for Clarke put your career in jeopardy.” 

“I’m more than capable of separating feelings from performance.”

“Struth. Things are about to kick off,” Anya mutters beside Clarke.

“Are you?” Titus gesticulates in Clarke’s general direction. “I see it happening all over again. I warned you, Lexa. Told you from the start. That girl is ruining you, just like Costia did.”

“No,” Lexa snarls, “ _You’re_ ruining me.” She shakes her head, bitterness in her expression. “I’ve had enough of this… this fucking bullshit philosophy you’ve been feeding me for years. I want more from life. I’m allowed to want more. Tennis isn’t everything.”

He recoils as though struck.

Lexa appears to capitalise on it now she has him on the back foot. She advances one step, drawing herself up, like she’s tapping into some inner reserve of strength and authority. Calmer now—at least on the surface.

“You don’t mean that,” he sputters. “Think of everything you’ve been working towards since you were a child. Don’t let your emotions cloud your judgement now.”

From here Clarke can see the way Lexa’s jaw works back and forth. 

“You’re wrong, Titus. I’ve never been more clear-headed.” She lifts her chin. “I made so many allowances for you because of some misplaced sense of loyalty or gratitude but I can’t anymore.”

“Lexa, listen—”

“No,” she snaps. Her eyes shift away as she takes a deep breath. When she looks at Titus again, she has visibly regained some composure. “I’m done listening to you. I’m done with you, period.”

“Oh, shit.” Anya nudges Clarke with her elbow. “She’s gonna do it. She’s finally giving Egghead the flick.”

Clarke hisses at Anya to be quiet, on tenterhooks herself while she watches the drama unfold.

Titus’s face turns alarmingly purple, like he might actually be about to burst a blood vessel. “I shaped you into a champion! Sacrificed years of _my_ life to guide you, to train you for greatness. And for what? For you to turn your back on everything I taught you? For this…” he spits with such derision, “ _girl_? Mark my words, she will be your downfall.”

The calm that Lexa has been holding on to vanishes. She explodes, incandescent with fury. A tendon stands out on her neck as she practically roars, “Get out!”

“Lexa.”

“You’re fired.”

At those fatal two words, Titus staggers backwards but he has no retort, no more fight left in him. The colour drains from his face, growing drawn and pale as he turns away. He doesn’t raise his eyes from the floor as he passes Anya and Clarke to reach the exit.

“Dunno about you, but I’m moist,” Anya says out the side of her mouth.

And Clarke can’t deny that she isn’t ever-so-slightly turned on.

There’s something about Lexa unleashing her rage on that pathetic excuse for a man that leaves Clarke breathless. The flashing eyes and the bared teeth and how Lexa went from zero to murderous in the space of three seconds makes Clarke want to drag her into the locker room and relieve some of the tension.

Instead, she follows Lexa into the chest-deep heated pool to begin the exercises while Anya goes off in search of coffee. In silence, they work through a program of gentle stretches and range of motion mobilisations and gradually Lexa’s brooding subsides as her limbs loosen up.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

“I’m not.” Clarke holds eye contact as she slowly rotates the hip joint of Lexa’s leg, supporting Lexa behind the knee. “It was very chivalrous of you to stand up for me. I just—”  She hesitates. “I never wanted to drive a wedge between you and Titus.”

Lexa’s hands shift where they rest on Clarke’s shoulders, squeezing slightly.

“You didn’t. This was all his doing. And he never gave you a chance, always pulling the Costia card at every fucking opportunity.” Lexa sighs, letting go of the last of her aggravation. She slides her thumbs along the ridges of Clarke’s clavicles. “It doesn’t even compare.”

Clarke wants to ask, is already formulating the question when Lexa volunteers, “I was eighteen when we met. Just turned pro. Thought I was hot shit and totally above this lame tennis camp Titus wanted me to go to. He owed the people running it a favour, so I was supposed to go in and mentor the younger kids; coach them from the inside. It was easy practice. Six weeks in Texas before I started the new season of the tour. But then I saw Costia and…” Lexa shakes her head at the memory. “I knew I was gay from the age of, like, eleven, but I didn’t realise _how_ gay. She made me so tongue-tied and nervous. Every time she looked my way, my stomach swooped and my hands got sweaty and everything just raced.”

Clarke smiles, imagining a younger version of Lexa. Gangly-limbed and not yet fully comfortable in her own skin, an awkward fawn whose little ears would blush scarlet whenever this pretty girl made eyes at her.

“It took me two whole weeks just to pluck up the courage to talk to her alone. I don’t even remember what I said because of the white noise buzzing in my ears. But whatever it was, she laughed and called me cute and that was it. Within days we were inseparable. I wanted to spend every waking second with her so I’d forego practice with Anya to hit with Costia instead.”

Clarke eases Lexa’s leg down and begins to move backwards, guiding them towards the shallow end of the pool. The light shin weights Lexa wears provide resistance as she wades through the water and Clarke observes closely, monitoring for any signs of difficulty.

“And your form dropped.”

Lexa nods. “She couldn’t keep up.” She pauses, perhaps realising how arrogant that might sound and quickly amends, “What I mean is Costia’s parents were rich and they bought her way in. But, for her, it was just an extra-curricular that would look good on college applications and a way to meet athletic girls. She wasn’t serious about playing.”

“I would’ve feigned an interest in tennis too if the coaches looked like you.”

Lexa’s coy smirk is too irresistible for Clarke not to plant a short, sweet kiss on. Simply because she can, and even that brief contact makes her chest flutter. 

“I presume your budding romance didn’t go down well with Titus.”

Lexa’s expression darkens momentarily. “It wasn’t that he openly objected. He was way more passive aggressive than that. He needled me, constantly dropping little remarks. Put all these thoughts in my head that Costia was just using me, that she’d forget about me once she started school, the distance and my touring schedule and everything else would kill our relationship.”

“Oh, Lex.”

Clarke squeezes Lexa’s hip in sympathy. 

“In the end, I put my trust in him. Because he was my coach. He had to have my best interests in mind, right? I mean, my dad was paying him a lot of money and Titus had taken me pro and I didn’t want to throw it all away.” 

Lexa’s jaw clenches before she adds, “So I made the choice to focus on my career and broke up with Costia.”

“Have you seen her since?”

“God, no.” A grimace. “She probably still hates my guts.”

“I doubt that,” Clarke says gently. “You were young. Things always seem more heightened with all the hormones flying about.” Another thought occurs to her. “How does Ontari fit into all of this?”

“She was mentoring at this camp too and the three of us hung out together in our downtime. At least, until Costia and I got closer. Suddenly Ontari was the third wheel.”

Clarke just barely resists flicking her eyes towards the ceiling because she can’t believe _petty_ _teenage jealousy_ is the root cause of this long-standing arch rivalry.

“She swooped in to console Costia afterwards and completely froze me out. Ever since, Ontari’s been gunning for me. And the best way she can bring me down is by handing my ass to me on the court and gloating about it.”

Rather than allow Lexa to further dredge up the past, Clarke wants to redirect the focus to the future. “Well, the next time you play Ontari, you’ll wipe that smug look off her face.”

“Yeah, maybe. Or she could be even better six months from now. I mean, the US Open was her second Major win this year. At the moment, I can’t even maintain a brisk walking pace without getting sore.”

Green eyes cut to the side and Lexa presses her lips together, an air of defeat about her. 

“Hey. Listen to me.” 

Clarke tugs at Lexa’s waist to draw her attention, to coax her out of this dip in mood, because right now Lexa’s biggest opponent is herself, not Ontari. In these early weeks of recovery, physiotherapy is centred around bringing strength and flexibility back to the hamstring, with impact exercises kept to a bare minimum. It’s easy to become demoralised by what seems like rudimentary stuff. Half the battle is maintaining a positive mental attitude, but Clarke’s encouragement can only do so much; Lexa has to meet her in the middle.

“You’ve already made great progress in such a short space of time. Don’t discount yourself yet. I know this part of rehab,” Clarke glances around to indicate the many hours of pool work Lexa has done so far to keep her fitness levels up post-surgery, “is frustrating but soon enough you’ll move on to swimming and cycling, and before you know it you’ll be running again.”

Lexa makes a noncommittal sound but her gaze turns softer as she looks at Clarke. 

“In the meantime,” Clarke continues, drifting back until her shoulder blades touch the tiles. She pulls Lexa with her, arms encircling her waist. “We’re starting yoga this week.”

“Yoga?” Lexa’s face scrunches slightly. “Do I have to?”

“Think of it this way: we’ll be loose and warm and limber and in tune with our bodies. And you know what that means?” Off Lexa’s quizzical lift of one eyebrow, Clarke draws her teeth over her bottom lip before she leans in to whisper into Lexa’s ear, “Incredible. Slow. Sensual. Sex.”

When Clarke withdraws, Lexa has that _look_ about her. Eyes gone dark and half-lidded. But the slightest curve of her mouth hints at mischief.

“Is this where I make the obvious crack about downward facing doggy-style?”

Clarke tuts. “Rude.”

She waits a beat. 

“If you agree to another fifteen minutes in the pool, I’ll let you bend me any way you like.”

  
  


***

  
  


As the weeks slip by, Lexa gradually regains strength in the muscles around the hip joint. Isotonic training progresses to core pelvic work and by the fourth month of rehab Dr Primus gives her approval for Lexa to begin land jogging. Try as she might, cajoling with kisses and suggestive words, Lexa never succeeds in persuading Clarke to go with her.

It all takes some adjustment: the rehab and the diet and the highly regimented existence Lexa leads. Because Clarke’s never had to practically _live_ with an athlete before. On the occasions she stays over at the condo, she gets woken up without fail by the whirr of the blender. Every time it happens she grumbles and pulls the covers over her head and snoozes for a while longer.

There are upsides, of course.

Such as when Lexa comes in from an early morning run on the beach, ear buds draped around her neck, sweat slicking her abs, her chest, across her shoulders, highlighting the contoured lines of her body. Literally glowing, backlit by the sun. Damp hair pulled back into a ponytail, made curlier from perspiration and the ocean air. Chest heaving slightly because she pushed herself hard on that final stretch and she’s a little out of breath. 

Clarke just takes one look at Lexa and pulls her into bed, living for the giggle that gets smothered by their lips as Clarke rolls them over.

Every once in a while Lexa will break from the rigid routine to try new restaurants or enjoy the occasional home-cooked indulgence. On rest days (which Clarke strictly enforces), they sometimes go on road trips to the swampy Everglades or Key West to take in the sugar white sands and heart-stopping sunsets over the Gulf of Mexico. They explore the east coast, driving up to laid-back, sleepy seaside towns, checking in to quaint inns and B&Bs, walking hand in hand along the boardwalk or down Main Street, peering into shops and sampling the freshly-caught seafood the local eateries have to offer. Then later, stifling gasps and other, more guttural noises as they burn off the calories in the most enjoyable way.

Life is good.

Clarke acclimates.

After the first incidence of painful sunburn, she’s more diligent about applying the fancy sunscreen Lexa got her—the same brand Lexa uses that she loves the scent of, but SPF 50—and the homesickness ebbs once she finds a store downtown that stocks English tea and some of her favourite snacks. Biscuits, Clarke quickly discovered, are something else entirely here, while American ‘candy’ bars are horrid in comparison to British chocolate.

And with each passing day, Miami starts to feel more like home.

She loves her house. Loves having this quiet spot where she can relax in the evenings, kicking back with a cold beer on the porch, listening to the sounds of the neighbourhood. Lexa spends more and more time there, even though she complains about the shower’s low water pressure and how she can never get the knack of adjusting the temperature. Despite the humble surroundings, Lexa looks so at ease preparing food in the kitchen, wearing the novelty ‘sexy’ lingerie-and-garters apron Miller gave Clarke one Christmas as a joke, during that period when she was ever so slightly obsessed with the Great British Bake Off (admittedly, her interest was more in Ruby Tandoh than the actual bakes).

Clarke is unable to contain a snort when she wanders into the room and sees Lexa in the apron.

“I can’t believe you have this thing in your possession,” Lexa mutters. “Did you buy it or bring it with you?”

“It was a gift,” Clarke shrugs. “Still better than your geeky Wimbledon one.”

Lexa pretends to flick pasta sauce at her in retaliation but Clarke only smiles and ambles over to put her arms around Lexa’s waist as she resumes stirring the pot.

The soft refrain of music drifts through the open window, coming from the elderly Cuban couple next door: velvety crooning in Spanish, slinky mambo rhythms, trumpets and claves and bongos. 

They sway together in silence for a minute or two before Lexa switches off the cooker and moves the pot off the gas ring. She turns within the circle of Clarke’s arms and kisses her, gently takes one hand to clasp in her own, and the next thing Clarke knows, she’s being spun around and dipped low.

She laughs in surprise and, once she’s upright again, she clings to Lexa’s shoulders. “I had no idea you could dance.”

“Mm, I know a few moves.”

“So I see.” They shimmy a little closer so that they’re pressed chest to chest and hip to hip. Clarke hums thoughtfully. “I wonder if Indra could use her connections to get you on the next season of Dancing With the Stars.”

“Oh Jesus, no.”

“But you’d look so good in a sparkly, sequined number with a daring split up the side. Those gams of yours, all tanned and covered in glitter.”

Lexa wrinkles her nose at “gams” but says nothing.

They continue shuffling around in a slow circle. 

After a few moments, Lexa concedes, “I’d consider it if the producers let me have a female partner.”

“And now I withdraw the suggestion.”

The corner of Lexa’s mouth lifts. “Jealous?”

Clarke scoffs.

She lets her fingertips trail over the nape of Lexa’s neck and Lexa’s arm winds tighter around her waist. Warm lips find her jaw and she shivers at the sensation. This close, she’s in a fog of perfume and body heat and it goes to her head, makes her feel almost tipsy, drunk on the intimacy.

“Maybe I am a teensy bit opposed to the idea of some hypothetical floozy draping herself all over you while you do the tango or whatever on national telly.”

Clarke feels the stretch of Lexa’s smile as kisses are planted along her jaw and up towards her ear. 

“I knew you were the possessive type,” Lexa murmurs, teasing delight evident in every syllable.

But before Clarke has a chance to dispute the accusation, her mouth is claimed in a hungry kiss. She slips her hand from Lexa’s and brings it to Lexa’s cheek, pushing up and forward into the kiss as it deepens. She soon takes control, sweeps her tongue inside, savours the quiet groan released into her mouth as Lexa gathers her closer, tighter. Doesn’t break away until her backside bumps against the edge of the table. 

All it takes is one glance at Lexa’s flushed cheeks and reddened lips, the heavy droop of her eyelids and the skew of that silly apron for Clarke to reach for her again. 

“What about the tagliatelle?” Lexa asks, a halting, breathless quality to her voice as Clarke attacks her neck in earnest.

Clarke’s reply is growled against Lexa’s throat, “Forget the tagliatelle.” 

Her hands drop to Lexa’s hips then roam around to grab that perfect bum. A second later she reverses their positions, trapping Lexa against the furniture with the lower half of her body. 

“I’d much rather show you some moves of my own. This one’s called: ruining another kitchen table. But this time,” she holds Lexa’s dark stare, “I’ll lead.”

  
  


***

  
  


It’s another month before Lexa returns to full training, still without a new coach. Anya fills in while Indra whittles down potential candidates until, at last, they make an offer to Marcus Kane. He has an impressive pedigree, having worked with several top tier players in both the men’s and women’s game, and his calm, considered temperament is a world away from Titus’s ranting and raving coaching style. 

“What clinched it for him?” Clarke asks Anya as they watch Lexa serve from the sidelines during his first session in charge.

Since the surgery, Lexa’s had to rebuild her technique from the ground up to harness the power of her upper body instead of her legs and hips, and while it’s noticeably slower than its previous blistering pace, her serve has lost none of its precision.

After the ball smacks into the backstop, Marcus wanders over to offer some advice. Lexa listens, all sharp jawline and solemn nod as she absorbs his words. Then he says something else and she cracks a smile and they both chuckle, the ice broken between them.

“Said she reminded him of a young Navratilova,” Anya replies, tucking her hands into the pockets of her track jacket. She lets the statement hang for a bit before she smirks, “Really fucking gay.”

Although she knows she shouldn’t, Clarke laughs.

Across the court, Lexa catches her eye before the next ball toss. Happiness and optimism radiates from her like a shining beacon and Clarke basks in the reflected glow. 

_I love you_ , Clarke mouths.

And Lexa visibly draws power from it, channeling it into her serve as she bends and twists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an epilogue still to come. Stay tuned (hopefully it won't be another seven months).

**Author's Note:**

> For those curious about my reference for Clarke’s accent: Google any interview with Rose Leslie (yes, I know she’s Scottish but she doesn’t sound it. at. all. And I say that as a fellow Scot).
> 
> Come [yell at me on tumblr](http://femininenachos.tumblr.com) if you feel so inclined.


End file.
